


Pathos

by violetnyte



Series: Replacement [5]
Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: All my Ethos feels, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Space Battles, Uncontrollable Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-18 11:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 30
Words: 87,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8160506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetnyte/pseuds/violetnyte
Summary: Follow-up to Replacement and Phoenix. Ethos receives a new assignment that threatens to destroy everything he's worked toward.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As this takes place within "Replacement-verse" please note that it is not compliant with canon but instead adheres to the backstories, plot, characters, and setting that I established within this story series. It is highly recommended that you read Replacement and Phoenix first.

It’s Deimos who finds me crying. If it were anyone else I’d be embarrassed, and maybe I am still embarrassed even though it’s him. He stands there in the doorway and looks so confused for a moment that I have to wonder if he even recognizes me, maybe he thinks it’s someone else even though he’s the one who let me in here in the first place. 

That was hours ago, feels like it should have been days ago, and I’m so grateful that he’s the kind of friend who doesn’t ask too many questions. Well, Deimos is the kind of friend who doesn’t say much of anything, but he’s better at conveying everything with a single look or gesture than anyone I’ve ever met in my entire soft, stupid life. I just told Deimos that I needed to be somewhere no one would think to find me, and he let me into his room with the promise that Phobos wouldn’t come around to bother me. 

He was right about that, it’s just been me alone in this too-bright room crying off and on for hours. More on than off, so I’m crying again with Deimos standing there just staring at me with so much confusion on his face. 

He steps away from the door and then glances over his shoulder at it, like there could possibly be something in the small sliver of space he’s created. Next he puts a careful look over the room, searching the shadows even though I’ve got all the lights on to make as few shadows as possible. 

I wish I had a top bunk, the high ground, but here on the station the rooms just have normal beds. Comfortable beds, and I hate them. There’s a lot I hate about the station, which I didn’t think was possible since I hated nearly everything about the Sleipnir. 

Deimos comes a little closer, and I realize he’s looking so cautious because I’ve gotten myself wedged into the corner and won’t stop crying. He glances over his shoulder again at the door. He’s got these soft grey eyes that are just as pretty as the rest of him, he’s one of the prettiest people I’ve ever met in my entire soft, stupid life. 

He’s also one of the nicest, but no one would ever believe me if I tried to explain that, because he’s also one of the toughest, the deadliest. I asked him to do something so awful for me because I couldn’t do it myself, and I’ll love him forever for agreeing to it even if he decides to start hating me one day, decides to stop being so nice. 

He’s being nice now, slowly easing onto the very far edge of the bed and watching me with all this tense and alert caution. Like if I so much as flinch he’ll be off the bed and across the room, because Deimos knows why I wish I had a top bunk.

“Hurt?” he asks softly. Everything he ever says is soft, because Deimos has this secretive whisper of a voice.

I shake my head in vicious denial, because I know exactly what he means even though it’s just a single word. Much as I wish I had a top bunk, I don’t need one. 

But I might, and it pulls a hard, fresh sob from me. 

The beautiful ink-brush strokes of Deimos’ brows come together as he slides toward me some. He wants to know what’s wrong, but he doesn’t ask. He just edges closer with an intense, searching look. He’s waiting for me to reject him, Deimos is always waiting for everyone to reject him, and it’s only because he looks so concerned for me that I realize --

“Oh. Oh, Deimos,” I sob. I slap at my cheeks to stop the tears. I force my hands to let go of my knees. I get myself out of the corner and shift to sit on the edge of Deimos’ bed like a normal person might. 

The arm he puts around my shoulders comes at a glacial crawl, so I almost feel like crying all over again because he’s so worried about me and doesn’t even look worried for himself. I asked him to come hide in here because, yeah, I wanted somewhere I wouldn’t be found -- but also I knew my own room wouldn’t be an option. 

I thought Deimos would be there, not in here trying to hug me even though he still looks like he thinks I’m going to yell at him for it, maybe hit him. Deimos is the kind of friend who doesn’t realize he’s my best friend.

I set my cheek into his shoulder because he lets me, because I like his arm around me. I’ve given him enough hugs like this that he knows to pat his hand at me, the gesture something like  _ there, there _ or maybe  _ it’s okay _ . 

He’s so worried for me, and it just makes me feel awful. I have to stop crying, because now I get to be worried for Deimos instead of myself. 

I pull away from him and rub the grit and sting from my eyes. “You don’t know, do you?”

His head goes to the side slightly, brows working a multitude of questions even though he doesn’t say a word. He just asked if I was hurt, and I bet anything if I’d said yes he would have put a knife into his hand and demanded who. 

So maybe I’ll be okay, and that lets me be worried for Deimos so I don’t feel like crying anymore. Or maybe I do, except I’ll want to cry for Deimos because --

“If he didn’t tell you then maybe I shouldn’t.” I bit at my lip and fret, because I know I’ve gotten myself into something awkward and terrible now. I’m talking too much, saying exactly what I’m thinking because I cried myself stupid. “Maybe he doesn’t know.”

Now Deimos looks angry, frustrated, not really at me but because of me all the same. I know I shouldn’t have said any of that, I know I should have just kept my mouth shut. I’m making things tense and terrible, awkward and awful, I’m going to cry again. 

“I’m sorry,” I say to him. “I’m sorry, Deimos, they must not have told him yet. They never tell the fighters anything --”

He snips his hand at me, those pretty grey eyes of his searching my face with violent need for me to shut up and just tell him, rather than ramble. “What’s wrong?” he demands. It’s not a whisper anymore, it’s gone into rasping, I know he has to be upset because I shouldn’t have said any of that and, oh, I’ve made this all so awful because it is awful, it is so awful. 

“Deimos, I’m being reassigned.  _ Praxis  _ is being reassigned. They’re going to take him from me, they’re sending him to the Voltaire, and I --”

He’s on his feet, he makes a noise -- not even words, maybe it is words, I’m not sure what he’s trying to say except it’s an awful noise that he makes as he jumps up from the bed. 

There’s a knife in his hand, oh my gosh, I don’t even see where he gets the knife from just that he has it and I am so scared except he’s turning away from me with it. The knife flies across the room and stabs into the pillow on the other bed. 

Deimos is already at the door -- out the door -- before I can even blink or gasp or shout after him. I do it anyway, I scramble off the bed and rush to grab Deimos’ knife out of his navigator’s pillow before following him even though I know it’s going to be tense and terrible, awkward and awful, but they never tell the fighters anything and I’m so stupid I came in here to hide and cry without telling my fighter anything either. 

I can’t believe how quick Deimos can move, how he’s so good at walking without looking like he’s running from something. To something, in this case, he’s hurrying toward my room -- he’s going after my fighter, and I can’t believe that I’m following him like this. 

“Deimos. Deimos, wait. Wait, I’m sorry --” 

When I catch his arm he snarls at me, snaps free and makes such a dangerous sound that I actually jump back a step, gasp. I feel my eyes going wide, can almost feel the color drain out of my face, because Deimos is so sleek and dangerous, so deadly and tough, he’s the smallest of all the fighters but I’d back him always in any fight. 

It’s only a single fractured heartbeat where I’m actually scared and he’s actually being scary. Then his eyes go soft again, his mouth twists down, and when he reaches for my hand I don’t flinch. He squeezes once in silent apology and then lets go, turns away from me and starts walking again. 

“Deimos, I really don’t think they’ve told him yet. I should tell him first,” I say. “I should have told him already. They probably expected me to, they never tell you guys anything --”

It’s just a sideways look that he gives me, instead of a lashing growl, but I go quiet all the same. I just follow Deimos through the station because it’s my room that he’s going to, and I don’t have anywhere else to go this late at night.

When Deimos stop walking I stop as well. Oh, it’s the door to my room, I have to key it open for him.

My fighter is inside, he’s stretched out on his bed with his tablet in hand reading. The casual way he glances up at us tell me he has no idea what’s happening, what’s about to happen. He only has time to look surprised before Deimos is there, almost tackling him, all over him so my fighter’s one eye goes wide and I can even see the skin around his patch going wide as well.  

Oh, I shouldn’t be here. The door closes at my back, and all I can think is how much I wish I had stayed in Deimos’ room. Deimos should be his navigator, not me, they should let him take the bed in this room and find me some top bunk. I should be the one going to the Voltaire, instead of my fighter, it’s my fault we keep doing so poorly in the rankings, my fault that they say we’re not compatible, my fault because even though Praxis is nice and I like being Ethos, I’m always going to keep thinking about my first fighter, about the man I asked Deimos to kill for me. 

I shouldn’t be here now, I know that, I’ve known that for so long and just tried to be okay with being here, but I shouldn’t. Deimos’ shoulders are shaking as he buries himself into my fighter and doesn’t say a word, doesn’t make a sound as he sobs, and I shouldn’t be here for this. 

“Deimos? Ethos? What is it? What’s wrong?” He can’t decide which of us he needs to be worried about more, because I’m plastered up against the door even though it’s my room same as his, and then of course Deimos is latched into him shaking in that silent, horrible way of his. 

All I can think to say is, “I’m sorry.”

His arms go around Deimos, and he glances down just long enough to make sure I’m not apologizing for nearly getting Deimos killed again. 

“They didn’t tell you?” I don’t need to see his look of confusion to know that’s the truth, because I should have known the instant Deimos was looking more worried for me than for himself. Of course they expected me to do this, and of course I didn’t do it, I just ran off to hide and cry. 

I should leave, they’re going to want to be alone, the rooms on the station might be bigger than the ones on the Sleipnir but there still isn’t any privacy unless I leave the room. I don’t leave, though, because the least I can do to make this less awful is explain it so Deimos doesn’t have to. I owe it to them both to explain this, now that I’ve made it so awful and awkward for them. 

Even though I want to leave, even though I know I shouldn’t be here, I go over and stand beside my fighter’s bed to explain he isn’t going to be my fighter anymore, that either I’m getting a new Praxis or he’s getting a new Ethos, or we’re both getting new names but what does it matter, I’ll still be me and he’ll still be him, and we won’t be together any longer. 


	2. Chapter 2

I know what it’s like not to have a fighter, not to be anything. I know what it’s like to want to be nothing, but I don’t want this. I liked being an Ethos, and I liked having a Praxis for my fighter. I liked him even better once he started up with Deimos, because I like Deimos best of all. 

I stare across at Phobos and wonder how much trouble I would get into if I tried doing something to him. Push him over a rail, maybe, or trick him into walking out an airlock. If I was a Phobos, instead of an Ethos, then I’d have Deimos for my fighter. I’d never be afraid at night if Deimos was the one in the room with me, because Deimos is one of the nicest, prettiest, toughest people I’ve ever met. 

Phobos catches me staring and gives me a nasty look before elbowing Porthos so the two of them can mutter about it. They’re both so awful. I look away and wonder why command even bothered to have me stand here for this briefing. I don’t have a fighter anymore, or I won’t have a fighter for much longer, because the Voltaire is going to be here within a few days. 

I don’t know what’s worse, if they do decide to give me a new fighter or if they don’t. I don’t want to go home and tell my mother and my aunts that I failed, that I couldn’t be tough, that I wasn’t smart enough, or brave enough, that I’m always just going to be this pudgy, awkward, soft, stupid kid with pale freckles and tousled curls, round cheeks and round nose, I just want to scream sometimes when people call me cute.

He called me cute, my fighter -- my first fighter, the one I asked Deimos to kill, the one I ended up having to kill. I don’t like to think about it. I’m only thinking about it now because it’s all I ever think about, even though I don’t like to and don’t want to, I’d do anything to stop thinking about it. Maybe not anything, because I already did everything the once to try getting away from my fighter, my first fighter. 

“Ethos? Ethos, do you have a minute?”

It’s Abel asking me, smiling at me as he approaches with his tablet and some charts already loaded on the screen to show me. I was just drifting toward the door now that the briefing’s over. All the other navigators get to go to their fighters, go to their ships, all the other navigators have things to do but what am I going to to do once I don’t have my fighter anymore? 

I forget Abel asked me something, so I smile and stop walking. I let him get closer to show me the tablet and make him repeat the question. Abel’s really pretty, too, but in a different way than Deimos. He’s a navigator like me, soft and blond, but he’s taller than me, his cheeks aren’t so round, and his eyes sometimes get to flashing so I know he’s tough. His fighter’s tough, the best fighter on the station they say, but Cain’s horrible to Deimos so I don’t like him. 

I guess I like Abel. I feel sorry for him, that’s what it is, I feel sorry that he’s got such a horrible fighter like Cain, but they’re often the top-ranked team so I guess that’s why Abel’s eyes get to flash like he’s dangerous sometimes, even though he’s just a navigator. 

“Um, I think you need to carry over this column. You’re missing the fuselage data, see?” I swipe over a few times on Abel’s tablet until I find the dataset and point to where he’s done it wrong. 

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, you’re right. Thanks, Ethos! I knew you’d be able to help.” Abel smiles, he’s got a pretty smile, I wonder if the scar on his lip still hurts sometimes and think it’s so horrible that Cain put it there. 

I don’t know why Abel thought he’d need my help. I’m sure he would have figured it out on his own if he’s just thought about it, Abel’s just as smart as he is pretty. I shrug at him and smile back though, because Abel’s nice and I’m not a mean person, I try to be nice, I like Abel and just want to help. I know Deimos wouldn’t like it if he saw me smiling at Abel this much though, because Deimos doesn’t really like Abel. He likes Cain, even though he’s horrible. 

“Hey, Ethos?” Now Abel’s the one smiling too much, he’s giving me a look kind of like my Aunt Cecilia gave me when she had to be the one to tell me she ran over my dog with her car. So I know what he’s going to say, even before he says it. “I heard that they’re reassigning you and Praxis. I’m sorry things didn’t work out between you two…”

“Oh, it’s okay,” I hear my own sweet little voice say. I smile, because I’ve got a cute smile and everyone always says so, my mother and my aunts always said so, all the girls at school always said so even though none of them really liked me and I never really liked any of them. 

“Thanks, Abel, but it’s okay, really.”

It’s not, but I had to tell my aunt it was okay, too, that Patches ran under her tires before she could stop in time. Probably my fault for not latching the gate all the way closed, just like it’s my fault we’re getting reassigned because I’m the one who can’t stop thinking about my first fighter, even though I’ve got a nice new one I should be thinking about instead. 

It’s my fault because command already found me a fighter I was compatible with, we were one of the top-ranked teams, but I threw that all away already and there’s no going back. I did everything to get away and then asked Deimos to kill him when he wouldn’t stay away, so now the fighter I was compatible with is gone so there’s just me, getting to be nothing like I thought I wanted. 

Abel smiles, looking relieved just like my aunt. No one likes awkward and awful situations, and as good as I am at making them, I’m also pretty good at smiling my way through them. I’ve got a cute smile, everyone always says so, even if they’re saying it to be mean or maybe mocking it with me like my first fighter did, always calling me cute so I grew to hate him for it, same as I loved him for it. 

“That’s good,” Abel says. “I just know it was bothering you, before, but if the two of you really aren’t compatible then it’s probably for the best -- you know? I’m sure you’ll hit it off right away with your next fighter. Praxis, you know, what happened to his other navigator -- before you -- I can’t imagine that’s easy … you know?” 

He’s making this so awkward and awful, even though I’m trying to smile my way through this all the same and want him to do the same. We don’t need to talk about this, I think Abel’s pretty and smart but right now he’s being so stupid because I don’t want to talk about this.

“Yeah,” I agree. “You’re right. Um, I should go. I need to make sure I have everything set for the transfer.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. Thanks again for the help.” The scar on his lip flashes as he lifts the tablet in a wave, smiles, and then I realize I’m the one who needs to turn around and keep walking. 


	3. Chapter 3

I don’t mean to keep walking into the middle of such awful and awkward things, but I do. It’s a whole day of being awful and awkward, tense and terrible, because first I try going into my room after lunch and find Deimos in there with my fighter. The door slides open on them talking, because Deimos can say so much with a single glance and now he’s just staring at my fighter with everything he wants to say right there on his face.

My fighter isn’t like that, part of his face is covered with shadow, so he’s got to say things in that nice, calm voice of his. I’ve walked into the middle of it, right into the awful and awkward middle of this conversation they’re having. 

“-- always love you,” my fighter hushes to lean, sleek, dangerous Deimos, who doesn’t look so tough in that moment even though he is. 

They both look at me, I’m the one interrupting them, so I don’t even know what to do except mumble that I’m sorry and leave. I think I hear my fighter call after me, try to call me back, but he’s just being nice. They don’t want me in the room, they want to be alone, they’re not going to be together in a few days and it’s all my fault. 

So I go somewhere else, find an excuse to hang around with other navigators so everything is bright and white without any shadows. I even offer to help Porthos recalibrate his ship, because even though I don’t like him that much and he’s big like a fighter, he’s not so horrible that I can’t be nice and smile about it. At least not until Phobos comes over to simper and whine about, take Porthos away somewhere because the two of them are fucking, and I’m not so stupid and innocent not to know it. 

I wander over to the Reliant to see if Abel’s around, but it’s just Cain underneath growling and cursing so I don’t get any closer. I don’t think he likes me, but I also don’t think he bothers to tell the navigators apart all the time. No wonder he felt like he had to put a mark on his. He’s so horrible he’d probably put the wrong pretty blond against a wall or on the floor otherwise, and I’ll make myself sick thinking like that so I don’t. 

Of course that means the second awkward and awful thing I interrupt is Cain with my fighter, it’s really not fair that the two of them to be fighting in the middle of the hallway I’m trying to use walking back from dinner. 

“I’m just asking you to be good to him, keep an eye on him,” my fighter snarls. “Until I’m back.” He’s big, tall, broad-shouldered and strong even though he’s never all that confident in himself, never all that willing to get angry and violent like the other fighters, horrible fighters like Cain who are boiling over with fury and do so well in the rankings for it. 

“Dunno, Cyclops, maybe he’ll figure out you’re just a big dick on legs swinging around. Plenty others like you here on the station,” Cain says. “Maybe he won’t want you back.”

I wish he wouldn’t say such mean things about my fighter, it’s not nice and he’s nice so he deserves nice things said to him. He lost his eye the same time he lost his first Ethos, the one I had to replace, because he got to stay Praxis just like he gets to keep the Tiberius. They’ll probably keep him as Praxis, find him another Ethos on the Voltaire, maybe someone who isn’t afraid to be in the room with him at night. 

“I’m not looking to start a fight, Cain.” The words get pushed through gritted teeth, so it doesn’t sound very nice even though he is nice. 

Cain just shrugs, weight cocked to the side like he’s ready for a fight anyway. He always looks ready for a fight, he’s the top-ranked fighter with the top-ranked navigator, most of the time at least, often enough that everyone knows it and, worse, he knows it. It makes him always look ready for a fight because he’s so convinced he’s going to win, and sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t have tried figuring out a way for Deimos to ask Cain to help us when I wanted my first fighter dead. 

Now they’ve both noticed me, even though I didn’t do anything except stop walking and forget to turn around quick enough. I do it anyway, turn right around and start walking. I wish I knew how Deimos always looks like he’s not running away when he does this. He’s so good at walking quick and never making it seem like he’s running scared. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he knows he’s so tough, so quick, that he’s not scared to put his back to things that are horrible. 

I try so hard not to make anymore mistakes, not make anything else so awkward and awful. I don’t go back to my room that night. I know Deimos is going to be there, I know that they’re both going to be in there for me because they know I like having them both in the room at night when it’s time to sleep. I liked on the Sleipnir when we could push the mattresses together, I liked that it was Deimos near the door, my fighter in the middle, and me against the wall with all the room and those two tough fighters between me and the shadows. I can’t believe there’s anything about the Sleipnir I liked, since I hated so much about it for so long. 

So I don’t go back to the room, because I know they’re both going to be there and I know they’re going to want to be alone. They’re not going to be together anymore, and it’s my fault, so it’s the least I can do to find somewhere else to be. 

Keeler asks what it is I’m working on so hard, so late at night, why I’m sitting there poking at my tablet when everyone else is asleep. I have to make up some kind of lie, I don’t even know what kind of lie I tell, but I smile my cute smile and say my lies so sweetly that he believes me. I’m a really good liar, even if no one would ever believe it because I’m so awkward and awful, so stupid and soft, but it’s true. 

I’d lie to my mom and my aunts all the time, lie about the girls at school I didn’t really like and lie about why my Aunt Bethany found all those bodybuilder magazines under my bed. I even played around the weight set they bought me to make the lie even better, because I’m such a good liar and no one is ever going to believe it. Probably why I’m so good at it, because people take one look at my round cheeks and dimpled smile, and they listen to my stammering and soft-spoken shyness, and they think everything about me is there on the surface for the taking but it’s not. I’m a good liar. 

I might be a good liar, but I’m not a liar by habit, I didn’t lie to my fighter and I didn’t lie to Deimos, so the two of them know to be in the room at night even though I bet they’d rather be alone. Deimos ought to be his navigator, even though Deimos is such a good fighter, he’s so tough. But he should be the one in the room with my fighter, not me, or maybe my fighter ought to be a navigator -- he’s smart enough for it, always reading on his tablet and being nice about everything. I bet he’d be a good navigator, and with Deimos as his fighter they’d be the top-ranked team, better than Cain and Abel, because if any two people on this station are compatible it’s Deimos and my fighter. 

He’s not going to be my fighter after today, I made it through the night poking at my tablet and now it’s the last day I get to think of him as my fighter. I’m not going to be Ethos anymore, I haven’t been told yet what they’re going to make me -- if they’re going to make me anything or if I’ll have to be nothing again. I was nothing once before and wanted to be nothing, so maybe after today being nothing is going to seem nice. 


	4. Chapter 4

It’s the last night they have together, so I don’t know why they want to spend it with me. Just that the both of them come over to sit with me at dinner, these two fighters sitting down on either side of one little blond navigator, so Luna and Selene both just stare and then quickly grab up their trays to be somewhere else. 

It’s Deimos who speaks, because I’ve got my shoulders up and my fighter’s sitting with a lot of space between us even though he’s right next to me, even though I liked having a nice guy like him for my fighter. 

“Tonight, don’t hide,” Deimos says. Whispers it at me, a little secret we can share because his voice makes everything a precious secret to be shared. “Come to the room.”

I know which room he means, he means my room, but he spends enough time in there with my fighter that it ought to be his room, one of them ought to be a navigator so they can be the top-ranked team on the station and never get split up like this. 

My shoulders are already up, so it’s a funny kind of shrug.

“Deimos, if he doesn’t want to...” 

My fighter, trying to be nice about it, he’s always trying to be nice to me now even if at first we weren’t so nice to each other. I wonder if he’s still mad about that, if he thinks I’m mad about that, we weren’t so nice to each other at first even if we weren’t exactly mean to each other either. I guess we both just wanted to be with someone else, be somewhere else, so it was a lot of not being able to work together and no wonder even now our ranking is so poor that they’d rather reassign us than let us fix it.

From Deimos comes this soft, frustrated huff. “Wants to,” he says. He leans forward to get a look at me, a sharp look with his pretty grey eyes like knives. He asks it soft, everything he says always soft but this one even softer, even more of a secret. “Want to?”

I realize he’s the one who wants me to be there, even though he’s asking me and wants me to be the one to say it first. He’s not going to say it, not going to admit he wants to say goodbye to what we have, spend one last night together playing cards or just messing around trying to have fun. 

I’ll still be here on the station, they haven’t told me otherwise, and even though Phobos and Deimos don’t get along they’re not so poorly ranked together that either of them is getting replaced. It’s just my fighter, because of me, taking the Tiberius and his name to get another Ethos on the Voltaire so I’ll be nothing here on the station, like I was nothing on the Sleipnir before they decided to make me an Ethos.

I think Deimos just likes it, he likes listening to me and my fighter talk about silly things, he likes playing cards with us and sometimes drinking together. He likes having me in the room at night much as I like having him in the room with us, he likes sharing his fighter with me much as I like sharing my fighter with him, because Deimos is the kind of friend who doesn’t know what it’s like to have friends.

“Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”

It’s not much of a smile, Deimos never really smiles that much. It’s just when his eyes get soft and one corner of his mouth lifts some, so it’s a secret like his whisper he’s sharing with me. I dimple my cute smile back at him, because maybe it won’t be so awful if Deimos if still around, he won’t be my fighter but he’s still a fighter, the kind of friend who would back me in any fight just like I’d back him in any fight. 

After dinner we all go back to the room, the room I haven’t been in since that morning when I ducked in just long enough to shower and scrub. I stop in the doorway, go so still that it’s Deimos who gets a hand on my back and pushes me forward. They’ve dragged the mattresses off the beds and stuck them together there on the floor instead, just like how we used to on the Sleipnir, Deimos must have brought over his bedding too because there are plenty of blankets, plenty of pillows, a fluffy soft nest of bedding for us all to share. 

“Oh.” That’s me, that’s my soft little stammer, it’s my stupid soft little stammer trying to thank them but I don’t even get the words out at all. I just look at them, so it’s like I’m Deimos and get to say everything I want with a single glance.

The corner of Deimos’ mouth goes up as he takes my hand and leads me forward. My fighter goes to the dresser and digs out a bottle of vodka, real liquor with a paper label around the glass, so I have to wonder where they got it and why they’re going to share it with me, why they’re sharing this last night together with me. I wonder, even though I know the answer, because I’m soft and stupid like that. 

Deimos deals out the cards for us, sits so close to my fighter that he’s practically in his lap, and then actually gets all the way into his lap by the time we’ve grown tired of cards and have just started lazing around talking. 

I’m the one talking most, it’s usually me talking the most, rambling on and on because the both of them are too nice to tell me to shut up. My fighter, he’s not going to be my fight tomorrow but for tonight he still gets to be my fighter, he’s nice and I should have realized it sooner, should have tried to be compatible with a nice fighter like Praxis.

Command already found me a fighter I was compatible with, I don’t like to think about why we were a top-ranked team, how someone so horrible could be so right for me, I hate thinking about it and would do anything to stop -- did everything I could to make it stop -- and so I drink more of the liquor than either of them, drink so much they look ready to take the bottle away from me. 

My fighter’s leaned into the dresser at the top of the pushed-together mattresses, Deimos draped over him, both of them looking at me to be polite because I’m the one trying to explain something silly about cotillion like either of them cares about my soft, stupid life. 

I don’t even finish the story, it wasn’t much of a story, I just hug the pillow up to my knees and start staring at them. “What am I going to be when I’m not Ethos?”

My fighter looks startled by the question, but I see the way Deimos leans forward. I see his soft, pretty eyes go even softer, even prettier, he understands exactly what I mean because there is so much that Deimos understands, he’s just that kind of friend. He’s my best friend and doesn’t even know it, might not even understand if I tried to explain, because for all the things that Deimos understands, he still doesn’t understand people being nice to him. 

“Okay,” Deimos says. Like he’s got the answer to my question. He crawls forward, heavy and clumsy because we’re all pretty drunk even though I’ve drank the most. I realize he’s got a secret for me, something he wants to whisper, something he doesn’t want my fighter to hear. 

I let him get his arms around my neck and lean into me, let him get his whisper right up against my ear. 

“Still Aidan,” he tells me. That’s his secret, that’s the answer, that’s the secret I gave him but it takes me a long, startled pause to ever remember telling him in the first place. 

The night I asked him to help me kill my fighter, my first fighter, that night I’ll always remember even though I drank so much brandy that I don’t really remember it at all. I asked Deimos to help me, asked him to murder someone for me, told him my plan because all I ever used to do all the time was think about the ways I could get it to stop, the ways in which I could be nothing or make a lot of nothing. All I ever used to do was think about my fighter, my first fighter, and there’s a breath lodged in my throat now as I stare at Deimos, struggling to remember exactly how it was that I told him my name, my real name, who I used to be. 

Deimos pulls back and looks at me with a firm expression, mouth bracketed and brows drawn tight. “Who you are, now” he says. “Who you’ll be, tomorrow.”

I flick my wide-eyed stare from Deimos to my fighter, to that one eye and the shadowed patch watching us with a lot of curiosity and confusion. “Okay,” I say. More because I’m confused still, kind of drunk, completely forgot that I’d told Deimos my name once but glad that I did, so he could remind me of it now like this. 

“Aleks,” says Deimos. Sudden, the word bursting out of him not in a whisper but in a rasp, too loud so that he grimaces and doesn’t look comfortable.

My fighter leans forward, now he’s gone wide-eyed, so I know immediately that even though Deimos didn’t whisper it that he’s told me a secret.

He repeats it, back to being soft. “I’m Aleks.” And then his eyes slid sideways, so it’s warning to us both, me and the fighter at his back. “Like Deimos better.”

“Aidan. I’m Aidan.” He’s knows that, he’s the one who had to remind me of it, so I don’t know why I’m saying it again except that, oh --

“Marcus,” says my fighter. “In case I’m not Praxis tomorrow. I’m Marcus.”

And then Deimos turns, stares, he’s staring so hard that I abruptly realize that’s a secret he didn’t know. It’s a lot of secrets all of a sudden, a lot of things to whisper.

My fighter -- a man named Marcus -- maybe still Praxis tomorrow, with another Ethos -- he just stares back and then slowly this wine-red color creeps up his neck. “I can’t believe I never told you,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”

It’s a pretty, breathless, startled, beautiful little sound that trembles out of Deimos. He just starts to laugh, silly and drunk and maybe scared, all the way deep down, because he doesn’t want my fighter to leave anymore than I do, so he’s laughing his way out of this awkward and awful situation. It gets me to giggling, and even my fighter starts to laugh -- he’s still my fighter for this one last night, so it’s a nice way to say goodbye. 

In the morning when we’re all three hung over and stumbling around trying to put the beds together, he’s not my fighter anymore but just someone else on the station, some other fighter going to meet his new navigator. I leave first, I’ll leave them the room with plenty of time before breakfast since they were nice enough to share their last night together with me, but before I go I squeeze sideways into the man who used to my fighter, give him a hug and say goodbye, thank him for being so nice and say I’m sorry, tell him I liked having him as my fighter. 

“I liked having you as my navigator,” he says. “Take care, Aidan.”

He’s nice that way, lying to me, he’s not such a good liar but then maybe he is, or maybe it’s the truth. I don’t know what else to do, how else to make this less awkward and awful, so I leave and go eat breakfast, go to the commander’s office, wait to find out what they’ll do with me, now that I’m not an Ethos anymore but back to being Aidan, white-blond curls and faint freckles, dimple-cute smile and pudgy knees, awful and awkward. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

They have a fighter waiting for me when I get into the commander’s office. I can see him standing there, a dark shadow in uniform, lanky and tall with wide shoulders and a narrow waist, not as muscled as the fighter I had yesterday, the one I said goodbye to this morning, and not so dark as my first fighter, the one whose throat I cut open. I don’t like to think about that, I won’t think about that. 

He’s got his back to me, standing there at attention, so I don’t know who he is or anything about him other than he’s a fighter, my fighter, like I always wanted. 

My knees are shaking, my hands are shaking, I walk steady and try not to duck my head or hunch my shoulders. If he doesn’t know anything about me yet either then maybe I can make my eyes flash, maybe I can force the dimples out of my smile, maybe I can look so tough that this fighter won’t ever know that I’m soft and stupid, silly and weak, pasty-pale freckled and pudgy.

As I come to stand beside him, the fighter glances over. With a jolt I recognize him, just barely, maybe I recognize him but sometimes the fighters all look alike. I think he was on the Sleipnir, I think maybe I’ve seen him around. I think he already has a navigator, so maybe he’s just come from an awkward goodbye as well, because I’m pretty sure no one died between breakfast and now. 

“You’re being assigned to a team together,” the commander says. He steeples his fingers and gives us one of those glinting looks through his glasses. “Task names will be Pathos and Logos.”

The room goes black for a moment, it’s a split-second flash of terror that puts sweat over my neck and makes my heart skip too many beats. I feel sick, I think I might scream, somehow I keep standing there and know my face is being a good little liar for me even as I go completely numb. 

I’m there again, on the Sleipnir, fresh from academy and eager for my assignment, eager to meet my fighter and so excited I can hardly breathe just like it’s Christmas morning.

A fighter of my own, I am so eager to meet him, I am wondering so many things about what he’s going to be like and so nervous because I hope he likes me, I hope we’re compatible, I want us to be the top-ranked team so my mother and aunts will be proud, so my dead father will be proud. I’m there again on the Sleipnir getting my assignment and meeting a dark and dangerous fighter, all lean muscle and dark skin, nosy bumpy from being broken in a fight, a man I’ll come to love and grow to hate, want to kill and see dead. 

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe, I can’t move, I can’t blink or think or do anything other than keep my face still, lie for everything I’m worth even though I don’t say word, don’t move a muscle. I’m not on the Sleipnir, I know that, I know this fighter next to me isn’t him, it isn’t my first fighter, they’re re-using the task names. I’m going to be a Pathos again, they’ve decided to make another Logos, this fighter standing next to me is someone different. 

“Yes, sir,” says the fighter. My fighter, this is my fighter now, I’m a Pathos again and he’s a Logos. 

I would rather be nothing. 

My fighter, this new fighter of mine, he looks over and smiles with a wide mouth and narrow chin, looking sly and tough, lean and dangerous, a wild fighter for my own. The room we’re assigned is mine, I don’t have to pack anything up, but he’s got a bag sitting outside the commander’s office. 

“You were Athos before, weren’t you?” I ask, soon as we’re alone.

He shrugs. “And you were Ethos, so?”

I wonder if he’s mad that he had to be the one to pack up and move, if maybe he liked his old room for whatever reason, like the dresser drawers glided smoothly or the shower especially suited him. I wonder if he’s mad that he’s been assigned to me, and I wonder if he’s going to miss his old navigator the way that Praxis always looked sad and would sigh thinking about the Ethos I replaced. 

Now we’re in the lift together, going back to my room -- our room -- and all I can think is how scared I am to be alone in the lift with this wild and dangerous fighter. He’s watching me, I can feel his eyes on me. I stare at the panel, because I don’t like the way his wide mouth twists up in a smirk as he stares at me. 

“What happened to Porthos?” I ask. 

“Dunno,” he says. “Same thing as happened to Praxis I imagine. You’re not always going to be this nosy, are you?”

Heat flares across my cheeks. I shake my head but wish I hadn’t, wish I’d flashed my eyes instead, tried to look tough and be tough so this fighter knows I’m not going to put up with anything. 

It’s that numb feeling again, that split-second where everything goes black and I have to lie with every inch of my body to keep standing there just staring at the panel. I remember being in the lift with Logos, my first Logos, my first fighter, I remember how his smile sent my heart racing because I thought he was so handsome, so dark and dangerous, my wild and lean fighter -- a fighter all my own, wrapped up like a Christmas present in a black flight suit. 

I want to be nothing so much that my hands shake, so I have to find excuses to use them, to fidget and fuss at the nothing I want to be. When the lift doors open, I’m through them and walking down the hall toward my room, our room, because my fighter is following me with that bag holding his things. 

I key open the panel, lead the way into the room. It’s like a nice fighter named Praxis never shared the opposite bed, never filled half the drawers with his things. We always kept the room neat, never put too much clutter into the space, but it’s just the little things that tell me he’s really gone.

And then the not so little things, like the way my new fighter slings his bag at the bed and then turns to face me. The door to the room glides closed. I don’t even have a top bunk. 

“So,” he says. Smirking at me, eyes going over me. “You’re a lot cuter than my old navigator. I think we’ll get along just fine, so long as you remember to do what I say always. You might be the navigator, but that ship’s useless without me in there doing the fighting.”

Split-second black, going numb, having to be a liar so I stay upright and don’t do more than blink, smile my cute dimpled smile, the one that lies and says I have no idea what he means smirking like that, saying these things. Like I don’t know anything at all about fighters, like I’m not terrified and thinking over and over again about the first Logos, my first fighter, he probably wasn’t even the first Logos since they reuse the task names. 

My fighter, this is my fighter now, this is the man who is going to be in the room with me at night, the man who stands there smirking at me, telling me how it’s going to be -- my fighter, like I thought I always wanted, and I am so scared I can’t breathe. I am so scared that a loud buzzing fills my head, like a hornet’s nest of fear crashing between the pounding heartbeats.

No, it’s the door. The buzzing is the door, there’s someone at the door. I’m closest to the door, I’m standing there next to the door. My fighter cocks his head to the side, it’s okay with him if I open the door. I am so scared that he thinks that he gets to say if it’s okay.

Without actually looking away from my fighter I shuffle closer to the door. My hand finds the panel and presses. The door slides open, and there’s a fighter standing there, lean and dark and dangerous, glinting hard eyes and delicate, pretty features. 

Deimos, it’s Deimos standing there, all his weight poised in such a way that he looks ready to fight anything and everything, including the silly little navigator gaping at him. 

Deimos’ eyes flick over my shoulder, and that’s the only warning I have before the heft and heat of my fighter’s arm falls over me. Painfully casual in the way he puts his arm around me, right across my shoulders in a way that’s half-possessing, half-controlling, he’s a fighter all the way through and bold, dangerous, tough. No restraint to him like with a fighter named Praxis, a nice guy named Marcus who should have been a navigator, should have been Deimos’ navigator so he’d still be here with us. 

“Hello there,” my fighter says to Deimos. Like they know each other, but Deimos’ face gives way nothing. He’s so expressive when he wants to be, so inscrutably blank when he doesn’t. 

“Briefing,” says Deimos. He sounds bored, his soft voice lifted out of a whisper but still so hushed. “Now.”

My fighter looks at the com panel. Deimos must be lying, he must have followed us, he’s trying to back me in a fight and I will love him forever even if he starts to hate me because he’s standing there staring at my fighter like he’s ready for a fight. He’s going to make this a fight because I can’t, I’m just split-second flashes of black and numb, lying to everyone with my cute dimpled smile.

Deimos’ face gives away utterly nothing. His eyes are hard, cold grey stones in his face, the corner of his mouth lifted in that smile of his that’s all edges, the one that isn’t a smile so much as a knife on his face. He is so sleek and deadly, so tough and lean, why can’t he be my fighter instead of this Logos they’ve given me all over again. 

It’s a miracle that happens then, the way that the com panel suddenly crackles to life and barks out the order for Red Team to assemble, fighters to Bering and navigators to Cook, so that it’s the three of us in the lift along with two other teams from neighboring rooms. Maybe Deimos knew, maybe Deimos lied. I don’t really understand or know, but we have to leave the room and now we’re not alone together, my fighter and I. 

I don’t really understand how we get from the room to the lift, just that we do, I’ve gone too numb and want to be nothing so bad again that I’m becoming nothing, just a soft, stammering voice and dimpled cute smile. I remember a lot of time being that before, more time I being that than anything it seems like sometimes, when I think about it -- even though I try not to think about it, don’t want to think about it. 

That’s how it is for me, that’s how it’s going to be again, all numb and just standing there with everything a lie, a new task name and a new fighter, lies all over my face and lies making my body stand there. Lie with my hands to keep them from shaking, pretend to have a use for them to fidget and fuss, lie to Deimos with my smile when he catches my gaze and asks me a question without saying a word. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this ex-Athos appears in Phoenix, Chapter 11 -- I'd already come up with him, named him, and made him Porthos' fighter long before the Eclipse kickstarter even existed, so this is another instance where I break with canon. Sorry for any possible confusion!)


	6. Chapter 6

I find a lot of excuses not to go back to the room, not to be alone with my fighter again. It’s like waking up out of a dream or rising to the surface of a cold, dark pool or maybe it’s just remembering all the tricks I needed before that I never needed when I was Ethos. Now I’m a Pathos again, with a Logos, and I have to remember all my tricks not to be alone in the room with my fighter. 

Deimos follows me around for the rest of the day. I keep seeing him out of the corner of my eye, but he’s so small and sneaky, so good at being places and not being seen, so quiet. I shouldn’t be surprised when his navigator finds me, when Phobos marches up to me at dinner and slams his tray down. Deimos is across the room, seated next to Cain amid the other dark and dangerous fighters, and I see the way his fork pauses on the way to his mouth. 

Phobos huffs down across from me and glares like he wants to claw my eyes out. “Well, I hope you’re fucking happy,” he snaps. 

“What?” I stammer it at him, soft and silly. 

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” he says. “I heard all about your little stunt.”

“My what?”

Phobos clenches his fist around his fork, and I really am scared for a moment he might lunge across the table at me. I stare at him and get a better look, realize that his eyes have a red and puffy look to them, that his chest is heaving unsteadily. He’s so furious, but I also think he’s been crying. 

“You went to Cook and asked for reassignment,” he seethes. “Now Porthos is on the Voltaire with your stupid fucking fighter because you - you  _ \- you _ .” He makes that alone sound like the worst insult in the whole universe. I guess it is pretty insulting, to be me. 

“Um,” I say. “Phobos, I didn’t do that. I didn’t ask to be reassigned.”

Belatedly I realize what he’s just said, about Porthos, and things click. I’m so stupid, so utterly stupid, that I should have known the moment he sat down what we were going to be fighting about. And then more of what he’s just said actually makes sense to me, so it’s a strange, weird feeling to wonder if my Praxis became an Athos or if Phobos’ Porthos became an Ethos, and I’ll make myself dizzy and sick trying to think this through.

Phobos stares across the table at me. He stabs his fork into the twisting pile of noodles on his plate. “The file said it was a requested transfer. I know Praxis had his dick so far up inside Deimos that he’d never ask to be reassigned like this.”

There’s just this awkward and awful silence that rises between us before I have to stammer again, soft and silly, “I didn’t do anything.”

Which means Porthos did, if Phobos really is telling the truth that he got a look at command’s files and saw the reason why. I see the way his hand tightens, the way his face tightens, he knows what I’m thinking but maybe it was Athos -- my Logos -- who asked. I should offer that explanation, although Phobos and I both know that they probably wouldn’t have listened to a fighter and really don’t even ever listen to the navigators, not when you’re a top-ranked team. 

I have to say something, because even though Phobos is catty and teases me and isn’t all that very nice, I guess maybe I feel kind of sorry for him, because of the way he’d always smile at Porthos and sit close to him and trail his fingers along the man’s arm. Phobos is pretty, he’s really pretty, I wonder if command thought that would make him compatible with Deimos, because they’re both so delicate looking and all hard, sharp edges about it. 

“Um, my rankings were always so poor, with Praxis, so… I think maybe that’s why we were both reassigned,” I say. I twirl the tines of my fork into my dinner and taste nothing when I chew. It’s all that numb, even though I’m such a good little liar to sit there eating my dinner and smiling like it tastes nice, like I want to be sitting here eating this terrible, tasteless food. 

“Hmph.” Phobos flicks his chin up so he can glare down at me along the thin, arching bridge of his little nose. He’s really pretty, not at all some pale-freckled and pudgy awkward thing with tousled curls. His hair is sleek and wispy, so soft looking, mine’s all coarse and gets tangled even though I keep it short. 

“What dumb name did they give you?” he asks. “Are you Porthos now?”

I shake my head. “No. I’m Pathos.”

“Dumb,” he says. “That’s a dumb name. A pathetic name, to match how pathetic you are.”

Phobos is so mean. I don’t know why I thought I was going to be nice to him. Heat stings my cheeks, my eyes, I normally don’t let the mean things that he says bother me but it’s just been a long day of numb and split-second flashes so I’d just really like it if someone was nice to me. I miss my fighter, my nice fighter, I miss the nice man named Marcus who shared the room with me at night and didn’t complain about the noise.

More of the tasteless food ends up in my mouth, ends up trapped under my teeth and moved around with my tongue. It’s just the motions of eating, all those little lies I’m so good at doing. I don’t say anything back at him. 

Phobos keeps sitting there. The table’s empty except for us, because I showed up late and so did he. I wonder if he was trying not to be alone, but that’s silly because Deimos is his fighter and even though Deimos is so tough and deadly, he’s nice. He’d never hurt his navigator or make his navigator scared to be in the room alone with him, and I wish so much that Deimos could be my fighter. 

Maybe I’ll ask command. I glance across the table, watch Phobos without looking like I’m watching him. I wonder how much trouble I’d get in if I tried doing something to him, something really mean. It’s such a horrible thought, I know I’m being horrible. I don’t really want anything bad to happen to Phobos, but even though he and Deimos don’t really get along they at least do okay in the rankings. Probably because Deimos is so tough, so deadly, so good at being a fighter. 

I guess Phobos is pretty smart, he’s good at being a navigator. I shouldn’t be so horrible. I wonder how long Deimos has been Deimos, how long Phobos has been Phobos, I was already on the Sleipnir when they arrived so I really don’t know. I guess I could ask Deimos, but he likes being Deimos so much that I don’t want to ask him about when he wasn’t. 

It’s those kind of thoughts filling my head when the alert sounds. Heads lift, mine and Phobos’, Cain and Deimos across the hall, everyone looks up from their tasteless dinner. I’m out of my seat without even thinking about it, moving without even thinking about it. Phobos and I nearly collide as we both try to go the same direction in the aisle between the tables. His hands grab me so I don’t fall, I grab him just the same, we’re going to be really nice to each other because the only thing that matters is getting to our ships.

“Deimos!” he shouts, and the little fighter is there so they can run off together, even though they don’t like each other very much. Cain’s gone to find Abel or go to the Reliant, everyone’s going where they need to be and I have to find my fighter, oh gosh, I have to find my fighter!

I barely even had time to take a walk around my new ship, to look inside and play around with the engines, the nav system, my fighter and I haven’t even run so much as a sim together, we’ve barely said any words to each other, I’m going to get us both killed because I’ve barely had anytime at all to get to know my new ship, my new fighter. 

I’m stupid, so stupid, I’ve forgotten all my tricks, forgotten everything about being a navigator, forgot that it doesn’t matter what happens in the room, it only matters what happens in the ship -- only matters how we fight, how I fly, I’m going to get us killed. 

My fighter is waiting at the ship, waiting in the launch bay, I run to meet him so we can shout at each other over the sound of engines and alerts. 

He grabs my arm, pulls me close and yells, “I’m trusting you! Don’t fuck it up!”

All kinds of weird and warm feelings, because suddenly he isn’t being mean at all, he isn’t smirking at me, he means exactly what he says and what he’s saying is that he trusts me because I’m the one who flies the ship, I’m the one who has to keep him safe so he can keep me safe, we work as a team, my fighter and I. 

“I won’t let you down,” I say back to him. Firm, tough, maybe my eyes are flashing, I’m a navigator and even though my rankings are so poor now I used to be top-ranked, my fighter and I, we were a top-ranked pair, the other Logos and I. 

Then he kisses me, that’s weird, I guess we’re in the shadow of the ship where no one can see so he kisses me. That wide mouth of his presses into mine and swallows whatever soft and stupid noise I make. He kisses me, deep and plunging, hand over my arm and squeezing. 

It’s numb and split-second flashes, my heart stopping and my breath catching, everything all at once so it’s like I’m nothing but I’m not, I’m here in this launch bay in the shadow of our ship, a lean and dark fighter kissing me, my fighter, wild and dangerous. 

He releases me, pushes me toward the ship. “Go!” he shouts. 

I stumble away from him, fall against the ship, tumble into the cockpit, into the seat of the Pharaon where another navigator used to sit. This is mine now, this seat, this ship, this fighter, it’s all mine now and I know what to do. I am the navigator of the Pharaon now, I’m the navigator for this fighter of mine, and I’m going to do my best. I’m going to be top-ranked. 

It’s those kind of thoughts that fill my head, until we’re flying off in formation with the rest of the Red Team and I have no room in my head for thought at all. 

The Voltaire is under attack, all her ships scrambling, and the fighting close enough to the station that we’ve been mobilized to better the odds. I don’t think about the odds, about the streaking ruin of Fleet ships already taken down. I don’t look for the Tiberius, I don’t look for the Equinox, I look at my nav panel and sweep us hard into the thick of things. 

“Get us in range!” my fighter urges. 

My fingers fly to make the Pharaon fly, already doing precisely what he asks because I know what to do, I used to be part of a top-ranked team. 

There’s chatter over the com lines, navigators and fighters calling back to central command and central command calling back, but I let it flow over me same as I take in the stream of data -- engine calibrations, thruster levels -- I throw the shields to full front and shout back to my fighter, “Take the shot!”

He’s good, he clips one Colteron ship and takes down another. I have to spin us hard to dodge the return fire and hear the pained grunt from my fighter same as I know the Pharaon rattles and whines for the maneuver. She’ll hold, I know she will, I let my vision black into a thin tunnel because I only need to see the glow of the nav panel, I only need to feel the controls under my fingers to know when to stop the reckless spin. 

“Equinox, two on your tail!”

That’s Abel, already bringing the Reliant in and around to assistant. There’s a Colteron ship battering one of the Voltaire’s hanger bays, and we’re the closest starfighter team, so I don’t even hesitate. 

I dive us toward the Voltaire. “Logos, get ready.”

“Ready,” he affirms. 

The Colteron ship breaks off and ducks underneath the battleship, weaving around the heavy return fire. I bank left, right, grit my teeth against the speed and force and beg the Pharaon to hold steady as we miss getting clipped by our own allies in this fight. 

I barely don’t see the two enemy ships waiting on the other side of the Voltaire as we burst through in pursuit. They blip on the radar so suddenly I have to wonder, until I realize it’s the Voltaire’s shadow on my sensors that’s caused the mistake. Nowhere to go, nothing to do, it’s just a split-second flash before I sweep my hands with a short cry, activating the thrusters so we streak sideways. 

Black, black, tunnel-vision, alarms, the Pharaon screaming, my fighter yelling, structural integrity dropping, we shoot past the Colterons so close that we nearly hit them, nearly get hit, and I spin us around to the wail and rattle of the ship. 

Sweat drips into my eyes as I blink, try to clear the black and widen the tunnel,  My voice rasps, “Now! Logos, take the shot!”

He’s good, he must be just as tunnel-black dazed as I am but he does it, takes down the one and trades fire with the other two. I weave and dodge but we still get hit, a glancing blow that takes down the entirety of our shields and knocks screaming alarms through the ship. 

“Logos, get ready! One more pass,” I say. “We can take them.”

“You got it,” my fighter says. He sounds rough, all that tunnel-vision, the panel in front of me is lit up with red but the Pharaon will hold, I know she will, I might not have gotten to know her as well I came to know the Tiberius, as well as I knew the Nereid, but I know she’ll hold despite all that red. 

“Come on, come on,” I whisper. The nav panel glows beneath my hands as I push us forward, circle us around for another pass at the Colterons. They’re circling as well, trying to get behind us, trying to get us in range. 

I use the thrusters again, watch the levels careen toward zero as we race ahead of the Colterons and bank hard to win the race for positioning. “Logos!”

“Got it! I got it!” He sounds frantic, the ship’s screaming, I just need him to keep up, to know what to do and he does, he does it, he gets them. Both ships, good hard hits. 

Oh, oh damn, oh fuck, we’re headed straight for the side of the Voltaire and the levels are dropping, the thrusters wailing and moaning. 

“Hold on!” I cut the engines, redirect everything I have left, throw us so that I hear my fighter yelling and cursing, so that the restraints cut into my shoulders and it’s just black, rattling, screaming. We clip off the Voltaire and go spiraling, everything tumbling, black and rattling. 

“Pathos! Pathos! Goddammit, Pathos!”

I was out, I know it by the way I gasp and jerk, by the way my fighter’s shouting. My hands fumble over the controls.

There’s blood in my mouth, ringing in my ears, numb and split-second flashes, central command is issuing orders but all I can hear is my fighter’s ragged panting, the ship alarms. I’ve got to stay awake long enough to get out of this spiral.

Tunnel-vision, black, rattling, the glow of the nav panel, all that red, central command issuing orders, congratulating us, my fighter laughing with shaky relief, laughing that we’ve alive, that I’m awake and got us out of that spiral, got us shooting toward the station and safety in a crippled ship. Blood in my mouth, ringing in my ears, tunnel-vision, rattling, all that red, the launch bay, landing, and then nothing, wonderful nothing. 

 


	7. Chapter 7

_“Isn’t that right, cutie?” He smirks, so confident and charming, something like a hero so I don’t know why he’s bothering to be nice to a fresh academy scrub like me._

_I feel a little smile pulling my face, making me blush, because he’s so dark and handsome, wild and dangerous, like nothing my mother or my aunts would ever let near me. He’d be a black spot of soot in the parlor, my mother fussing at the tea service, wondering how she ever raised a disrespectable little navigator like me. It’s a nice thought, full of danger and rebellion, and so hideously shameful that I flush all the hotter, so that he has to know what I’m thinking, what I’ve been thinking at night and in the shower, ever since I saw all that dark, lean, dangerous flesh._

_“Y-yeah,” I say. I grab for my tablet, stab at random screens, charts and tables that I don’t even understand because I’m so flustered. “Um, how about—?”_

_And then he’s kissing me, just like that, gripping hard at my chin to lift my mouth to his, forcing my lips open with his tongue. It’s nothing like when I kissed Thomas Middlebury under the bleachers at cotillion, nothing at all like the imagined kisses in my mind, nothing at all like I could ever expect. It’s dark and dangerous just like him, so that I shiver and open myself greedily, so wild and desperate for whatever it is he wants to offer me. My mother would faint if she could see me, and it’s such an exciting thought, such a rebellious little impulse, that I drop my tablet to clutch his arms instead._

_His hand is in my hair, fisting through the curls, bending me to his mouth in a way that’s almost painful, so I pull against him slightly, try to pull myself away so I can ask him to be gentler even though it’s an embarrassing thought, because then we’ll have to talk about what we’re doing. It’s such an embarrassing thought that I stop resisting, scoot myself into his lap like he wants, so he doesn’t have enough angle to make it hurt. He’s just so wild and dangerous, everything a fighter should be, because this is how fighters are, and I finally have one of my own._

_His teeth nip at my lower lip, a strange pinching sensation, so it’s nothing at all like kissing my cotillion date’s brother. My heart beats faster when he releases my hair, runs his hands over me, exploring me in a way that’s horrible and wonderful all at once. It’s not until he rubs at my crotch that I realize I’m hard, that I have an erection, that he’s making me wild and dangerous, too, and it’s so embarrassing._

_“Well, cutie,” he says. His dark eyes gleam. “Well, well. You’re not so innocent after all.”_

_My face burns so hot that he can surely see it, and I make the most terribly undignified little noise when he grinds his palm into my crotch, so he must know that I want him, that I’ve been thinking about him, that he’s like every dark fantasy ever made perfect and put into this room with me, given to me like a Christmas present._

_He chuckles and kisses my neck, hard. I can feel his teeth nipping, the pull and suck of his lips, it’s molten heat when I’m hot already. He’s still got a hand on the straining press of my erection against my pants, and I’m just helpless with it. His tongue runs along the edge of my jaw, teeth close over my earlobe, like he’s going to just keep nibbling until he eats me whole. I’m making the strangest sounds, panting and whining about it, just flapping my hands over his arms because I have no idea what to do._

_He shoves me back from him so that I have to catch my balance, try not to fall off the edge of the bed. He laughs, almost cruel, so I guess he’s teasing me the way he says, “You’re a cute little slut.”_

_I’m just burning with embarrassment now, watching him with all this heat in my face, all this straining desire between my legs. I’m so scared of what will happen next that it’s exciting, dangerous, making me feel wild and rebellious and, oh, everything I could never be in my mother’s house but I want to be here, in Fleet, on this battleship._

_When he comes toward me again I lean forward, so he pushes me, grips my shoulder and still teasing me as he says, “Ever been fucked before?”_

_I must turn a million shades of red, from my toes all the way up to the last curl on my head. It’s not so funny, I don’t know why he laughs, because I’m so embarrassed. He has to know that I’m a virgin, that I’d only ever kissed Thomas Middlebury and then thought about it afterward in the shower, taking so long that my mother came to see what was the matter. He has to know that I’ve been too shy, always kind of silly and awkward, fat-faced and snub-nosed._

_His dark hands make swift work of my uniform, shedding the jacket, the shirt beneath, and then even my belt, so that I finally manage to find my tongue and say, “Um, oh. Ah, Logos?”_

_He’s got the belt in his hands, and then it’s on the floor, and then he’s shoving me back into the bed, taking off my boots._

_“Wait, Logos.” Oh, my gosh, this is all happening so fast because just a minute ago we were kissing, and now his hands are on my waist so that I grab for him, put my pale, skinny little wrists over his. “Logos!”_

_“Relax, cutie,” he says. He breaks my grip easily, like it’s nothing, because he’s all muscle, tough like a fighter should be. “It only hurts the first time.”_

_And my heart is in my throat when I realize what he means. I start to scramble back, toward the foot of the bunk even though that’s where the ladder is, but I don’t know where else to go with the way he’s got me pinned. “Wait, Logos, I don’t—“_

_He grabs for me, snatching my ankles, hauling me to him so that I’m a tangle of limbs and clothes, half-naked, bewildered by the suddenness of the way he kisses me. It’s wonderful, dark and dangerous, making me forget my fear so that I’m open to him, greedy for it. I like kissing, I like the way he’s kissing me, it’s just that my heart’s racing so fast and we hardly know each other. I don’t know anything about who his people are or where he’s from or even his name._

_He gets last of my clothes off, so I’m just some pale tumble of white-blond curls and faint freckles, pudgy knees. I try to hide myself with my hands, try to close my thighs together, twisting my body so he can’t see how silly and awkward I look compared to him. This is so embarrassing that I’m not aroused anymore, but he’s got his pants off now and I can’t seem to take my eyes away from the dark sway of his cock, heavy with arousal._

_My heart is going so fast it hurts, my vision seems to be shaking with it, and I can’t tell if it’s excitement or terror that’s making me feel this way. “W-wait, Logos.” I’m whispering now, cringing from him, reaching for one of the pillows to hide myself. We should talk about this first, even if it’s embarrassing, maybe each say one true thing about ourselves so we’re less like strangers._

_But he’s wild and dangerous, just what I wanted in a fighter, so he just hushes at me, seeming nice about it, like I’m some skittish horse he’s going to put over the fences. His hands find me, they’re so dark against my white skin, he’s crushing me to him, kissing me more, teeth cutting at my lips when I try to resist. I give way, let him kiss me, let him force my knees open._

_He’s got a hand against me, stroking at me, demanding me erect again. My legs aren’t shaking so bad now, I might not make such an embarrassment of myself, because he’s being nice about, it, kissing me, putting his hand all over my cock like no one’s ever done before, and his hand feel so much better than my own. I reach for him, thinking maybe I’ll do the same thing, but he stops, slaps my hand away so it stings._

_“Thought you were a virgin,” he growls._

_I’m wide-eyed, frightened by the sudden anger in his voice, so that I just stammer, “I – I am.”_

_And then he’s back to grinning, sharp-edged and sneering. “Good.”_

_Which I don’t understand, but I don’t try to reach for him again. He kisses me more, rough about it now, holding my arm so tight it might be bruising, like he thinks I’m going to bolt from the bed if he lets go. He strokes at me, faster, plunging his tongue into my mouth, so maybe it’s like sex because I don’t know what that feels like, I’m a silly awkward virgin just like he said._

_It’s starting to feel good, wicked, all this danger between my legs where he’s touching me. It’s like in the shower when I do this for myself, with the way everything tightens, my chest heaving around it, only it’s so much more intense. It’s a building sensation, like climbing, like stacking wooden blocks, so everything snaps and releases, falls._

_He abruptly shoves at me, knocks me flat on my back. I’m still in the middle of my orgasm, so when he turns me over I just hump the bed, emptying myself in a way that’s weird, that’s embarrassing, like maybe I’ve done this all wrong, like maybe this is all wrong. I’m so confused now, hardly able to put two thoughts together with the way my brain’s still shooting sparks, with the way I can’t catch my breath._

_There’s the pressure of his hands, shoving my legs apart, lifting a pillow under my hips. This can’t be happening, this has to be some really vivid dream, because it’s all going so fast. We were just talking a few minutes ago, and now there’s semen smeared between the sheets and my belly, and he’s got a wet hand against my ass._

_I try to roll over, try to get my limbs to move when I’m still shaky from having come. It’s a weak, kittenish feeling, like being helpless, especially when he easily pushes me back down. “Relax, cutie,” he says, and I think maybe it sounds like a warning._

_I get an elbow under me anyway, half-turning to look at him. “Logos—“_

_He’s so close all of a sudden, dark eyes intense, a hand in my hair to hold me, shake me slightly so it hurts. I think maybe he’s angry, like maybe I don’t know what I’m doing, that maybe I shouldn’t have let him kiss me if I didn’t want this to happen. He says, “Relax,” like it’s a command._

_So I do, or I try, I hug at the bed, arms curled under my chest, face buried in the blanket, feeling like I want to cry because it’s all so strange. I hear him laugh. He says, “You scared, cutie?”_

_He sounds nice about it, maybe worried, so I nod.  He presses close, so I can feel his erection against the curve of my bottom. “You want me to stop?” he asks._

_And I hesitate, slowly start to nod. I feel his cock jump, his hips twitching, and he groans against my shoulder, breath hot. He’s got a hand between my legs, stroking, until he reaches my ass. He nudges my legs apart, spreading me open, breathing tight and cock hard. “You’re such a fucking virgin,” he says. He’s so excited, I can hear it, feel it, and my heart’s just going to explode if it tries to beat any faster._

_“I – I don’t—“ I’m choking on the words, so embarrassed, trying not to be scared because this is exactly what I thought I wanted, what I asked him for with all those kisses._

_And then it’s pushing, an invasion, something that hurts, takes me by surprise, makes me choke on a yelp. He’s put a finger into me, and now he’s moving it back and forth so it feels strange. “So tight,” he says, like it’s a good thing. And maybe it is, if I can relax like he says, because it’s starting to hurt less, maybe starting to feel stranger, but then he does something, adds a second finger, so it hurts again._

_I cringe into the bed, try to pull away, but he catches my hip, holds me there. “You’re mine,” he says, in a way that makes me shudder, because it’s gone back to feeling good again, what he’s doing to me. I’ve got to relax like he said, got to stop feeling so scared. My hands are shaking, so I curl them tighter into the blanket, the knuckles turning even whiter._

_“Say stop and I’ll stop,” he says. He’s panting, moving against me, his cock rubbing a wet trail against my thigh. I don’t say anything, just bury my face tighter, shake my head, try to be brave because I’m a navigator now and he’s my fighter, dark and dangerous, wild like I always wanted._

_It makes him snarl, push his fingers into me harder, faster, so I don’t know how it feels anymore, I don’t know how I feel, I don’t even know who I am except some little navigator sprawled on the bottom of a bunk bed._

_“You want me to stop?” he asks again. He puts his hand into my hair and forms a fist, forcing my head back so I can’t hide my face anyway. I can feel how big he is, how hard he is, and just the fingers hurt so I can’t imagine what him inside me would feel like._

_I bite my lip and try to nod, but he’s holding my head so that I can’t._

_“Just say stop, and I will,” he says.”_

_I swallow, heart racing. “S-stop.”_

_He groans, lets go of my hair, pushes forward. Past the tight ring of muscle at the entrance and all the way deep, not stopping like he said he would, and there’s something forced out of me that’s high-pitched and strangled because of it. I hear him exclaim, praising me for being tight, and I’m trying so hard not to cry, trying not to panic, trying to stay calm and be brave because I’m a navigator now and he’s my fighter._

_He’s moving, oh gosh, it hurts because he’s moving so quickly, in and out, thrusting so that my body shifts against the bed. I clutch at the bedding, bury my face again because he lets me, he’s got his hands on either side of my chest so he’s braced, able to fuck me hard and fast. I’m gasping, wretched little cries, trying not to panic, but it hurts and he’s going so fast, so hard, rocking me into the bed. I can hear the slap of flesh, the hard rhythm of it, and it’s so wild, so dangerous because it hurts._

_It doesn’t last long, or maybe it lasts forever, but I just feel numb by the time the rhythm breaks and it’s a strange feeling of wet inside me. My face is wet even though I tried so hard not to cry, and I rub my cheeks into the blanket so maybe he won’t notice by the time he’s done filling me. I’m trembling, stomach twisted, hurting in places I didn’t know could hurt, chest so tight it’s terrible._

_He pulls away, and my body flares with ache as it adjusts in a way that feels shameful, strange. He’s breathing hard, almost laughing. I try not to flinch when he touches me, running a hand through my hair, fingers soft and almost affectionate. “Look at me,” he says._

_I tip my face toward him, hoping maybe he can’t see that I cried. He’s grinning just like before, confident and charming, so it makes him look handsome, almost boyish. He’s smiling like we’ve just played some wonderful game where I let him win, and there’s something soft in the way he strokes his hand through my hair. I sit up slightly, try not to wince, scrub a hand at my face._

_“Such a cutie,” he says, so it makes me nervous, flustered, confused._

_I start to pull my legs under myself, try to pull myself together, shaking so terribly and hurt so much that it’s hard, but I try anyway. I don’t want him to know how I feel, how much I want to cry, how scared and confused I am, so it’s just like there’s a thunderstorm and it’s dark and I’ve got to find my mother’s soft, big bed so I’m safe. Only she isn’t here and neither are my aunts, I’m all alone because I wanted to be, a navigator because I’m not strong enough to be a fighter, because I’m bookish and smart, shy and awkward, some snub-nosed little boy trying to kiss Thomas Middlebury because I can’t kiss his sister, because I think girls are pretty and fun when boys are wild and exciting._

_“You liked that? You liked getting fucked?” He laughs in a way that’s just as dark and dangerous as the rest of him._

_I find my voice, surprised it’s still there, surprised how calm I manage to sound. “You said you’d stop.”_

_“You didn’t really want me to stop,” he says. “You’re a cute slut, Pathos. You wanted it.” Quick, like he had the answer ready, like this is some quiz where he’s gotten the crib notes._

_It makes me embarrassed again, so I just drop my eyes to the bed. There’s a mess between my legs, dribbling out into the sheets, and that’s just as embarrassing as the rest and maybe scary, because there’s red, there’s blood. My breath catches, shivers like I’m about to panic, because I am about to panic, because I’m bleeding._

_He grabs my shoulder, shakes me, shoves me from the bed. “You’re fine. Go get cleaned up.”_

_“I – I’m—“ I’m shaking too hard to say anything, almost to fall down because my knees are pudding. There’s blood and the rest dripping down my legs, so it feel strange, so I feel strange, like maybe this didn’t happen._

_He gets up, takes my elbow in his strong hand, shakes me again and says, “You’re fine! Go get cleaned up.” And he marches me over to the bathroom, dragging me along with my feet stumble, so sure of himself that it makes me feel calmer. He keys open the door and practically throws me into the shower. “You’re fine!” he says again._

_He’s so confident and angry that it steadies me, makes me feel put together, so I nod and stand shaky-legged and naked in the tiled enclosure. I turn the water on, glance sideways to see him watching, smirking at me, his dark eyes going over my body. He’s all shadow and darkness, dangerous, and I think maybe he’s going to get into the shower with me. He’s got his cock in hand, just lazily stroking it, smearing something dark and wet over the dark skin, soft with arousal, like he’ll get hard soon enough if he just keeps watching me._

_I look away, quickly, heart racing, sick to my stomach, hurt somewhere I didn’t know I could hurt. I’m shaking under the hot stream of water and so, so cold, wondering if he’s going to come into the shower after me or leave. I feel like I might cry again, and I hope the hot water is enough to hide the tears if I do. I try to wash myself, try to get clean, but I’ve never felt so dirty, not even the time I made mud pies and tried to sell them to my aunts, who all fussed and pouted because I’d ruined my good play clothes._

_Now I am crying, shaking with it, holding my arms over all the hurt and sick in my abdomen. I look to see if he’s watching, humiliated and ashamed, because I’m supposed to be brave now, I’m a navigator just like I wanted, but he isn’t there. The bathroom door is closed, I’m alone, and the relief is so great that my knees can’t hold me. I sink to the floor, heart pounding, vision shaking, so dizzy and sick it’s like I’m stuck on some terrible carnival ride._

_Somehow I finish showering, wash myself until the bleeding stops, until I don’t feel clean but probably look it. I’m standing in the mirror afterward, looking at myself, trying to see if I look any different now that I’ve had sex. I see the purplish-red sort of mark on my neck, the place where he kissed me, when it felt good, when it was so wild and exciting just like I wanted. And I feel sick again, so dizzy and nauseous that I have to kneel at the toilet until my stomach stops heaving and I’m just sobbing, spitting vileness, nothing left between my ribs except hurt._

_When I calm down again I wash my face, brush my teeth, feel like maybe I’m okay now that I’m clean, that I’ve gotten it out of my system, rejected everything about what happened. It’s hard to go back into the room, but I do, because there’s nowhere else to go._

_He’s lying on the bottom bunk, on my bed, set against one side with his arm over the empty space like an invitation, like a demand. He just looks at me, forcing me across the room with his eyes. He pulls me up against his side, and I can barely breathe I’m so scared. But he just holds me, strong and warm, eyes closed now that he’s gotten me where he wants me, seeming so relaxed when I’m so tense._

_Gradually I stop trembling, the hurt becomes less, so I can breathe again in slow, steady puffs against his chest. It’s nice, being held like this, his arms around me, pressed against him so I can feel his strong muscles. He feels like a man, smells like a man, hard angles and strength, wild and exciting where as I’m shy and awkward, confused. I nudge at him, see if he’ll let me get closer, see if he’ll let me fall asleep like this because it’s nice._

_“Relax, cutie,” he says. It’s just murmuring, soft sounds, affectionate when he plays a hand through my hair, combing the soft, damp curls. “It only hurts the first time.”_


	8. Chapter 8

I wake up gasping, frantic, confused and hating it, there’s hardly anything ever that I hate, but I hate waking up without knowing why I was asleep in the first place. It’s bits and pieces at first, black and rattling, all that red, red on my thighs, my fighter shouting, my fighter moving inside me, my fighter laughing with relief, my fighter murmuring and petting me like it’s something nice. 

A dream, half of these things I’m remembering are a dream, but they’re also my memory, all of what I’m remembering is real but only some of it is why I’m waking up gasping -- or maybe all if it is why I wake up gasping, oh, oh gosh, oh damn, oh  _ fuck  _ I am so confused. 

“Aidan,” a little voice whispers. Deimos, it’s Deimos whispering secrets at me. “Aidan, quiet.”

I look at him, realize I’m in medical and he’s looking at me with an anxious expression. Deimos can say so much with just a single glance, and now he’s saying everything to beg me to shut up because my gasps are nearly shrieks. I’m too breathless to scream and that’s the only reason I didn’t wake up screaming. 

But now I’m awake, and Deimos is begging me to be quiet so I do, I shove my knuckles between my teeth and bite hard to keep from making anymore noises. I’m shaking all over, there’s sweat against the back of my neck, I feel so dizzy and sick. I don’t know if that’s why I’m in medical or if I feel this way because of my dream. 

It’s less confusing now that I’m more awake, more me and less of what I dreamed. That was all so long ago, that all happened to a fresh-scrub recruit, it wasn’t all that long ago but I like to think that it didn’t even happen to me sometimes. That’s confusing, I am still a little confused. Thinking is hard, and I feel sick and dizzy. 

Something soft and stupid stammers from me. “Did we win?”

Deimos stares at me, frowns, and it’s when he leans forward that I see his arm is swaddled in bandaging and cradled into a sling. I remember Abel’s voice shouting a warning to the Equinox, and how I went for the Voltaire instead of going to help. It was the right call to make at the time but looking now at Deimos I just feel awful about it. 

“Won. Voltaire’s fine,” Deimos says. He glances to the white curtain that surrounds my bed and lowers his voice to even further secret whispering. “Heard him on the com channel. In the Tiberius.”

“Praxis?”

Deimos nods, grey eyes shining and soft. He reaches out with his left hand, since his right is the one wrapped up and cradled in that sling. Our fingers interlace and squeeze. “Okay,” Deimos says. 

No, he’s asking me. He’s asking if I’m okay, because obviously the Tiberius made it back to the Voltaire safe or else Deimos wouldn’t look this worried about me. 

I start to nod and figure it out by the way the motion makes everything sway and shake, go black and rattling. Deimos lets go of my hand to fuss at me, same as I reach my hands up to fuss, so we’re both touching without really pressing at the lumped together wrap around my head. 

I remember the restraints cutting into my shoulders, all that red, blood in my mouth, and I remember clipping the Voltaire to send us careening wildly into a spiral that could have gotten us killed. I must have hit my head, which explains the sick and dizzy and explains being in medical. 

“What happen to your arm?” I ask Deimos.

“Broke,” he says. “Got hit.”

“Is Phobos okay?”

Deimos nods. “Cain saved us.”

Of course he’d give the credit to Cain, not just say the Reliant saved the Equinox so as to include Abel -- he doesn’t like Abel that much, even though I think Abel’s really nice. I wonder if Deimos and Abel would be friends, if not for Cain, but then I remember Deimos is the kind of friend who doesn’t know what it’s like to have friends, so I think maybe I hit my head really hard and am very confused still.

I look at Deimos’ arm wrapped up in its sling. “How bad’s my head?” I ask, because Deimos looks so, so worried still. He says the Tiberius made it back safe, his Equinox made it back safe, I have to assume the Reliant made it back safe, I know the Pharaon made it back safe because I’m here in medical, and I remember my fighter laughing in relief about it. 

“Not bad,” says Deimos. “Feel okay?”

And now I’m really worried, because he’s saying so much in that secret little whisper of his, and he started off calling me Aidan -- though I started off trying to scream, so that at least makes a little sense. 

“Um, yeah, I feel okay. Kind of dizzy, a little queasy... “ I touch at my head again and feel around until I find the spot where the tenderness is the worse. 

I don’t like to think about it, but I remember when poor Deimos needed to get his head stitched back together. Logos did it to him, my first fighter, the first Logos but they reuse the task names so he was only my first, not the first. I’m so confused still, because it’s confusing now to be Pathos again and have a new Logos, when Deimos and I made sure the old Logos would go away forever and never hurt us again.

I stare at Deimos’ arm and know why he looks so worried. 

“Oh,” I breathe. “Oh.” Soft and stupid, awkward and awful, I should have realized it sooner.

“Sorry,” Deimos whispers. Like it’s his fault that he has a broken arm and can’t fight for me now, can’t follow me around to back me in a fight, to make it a fight so I won’t be alone in the room with my fighter. 

“No, Deimos, it’s okay.” And then I smile at him, not even really all that much of a lie, because I remember my fighter saying that he trusted me, I remember how good he was at taking the shots and how good I was at lining them up -- central command over the com line, congratulating us, I know we did good out there.

It felt good, but I don’t want to think about why that was, how easily Logos and I could work together, how easy it was for me to call to Logos, fly with Logos, we were a top-ranked team, my Logos and I, my fighter and I, he was good and I was good, and we were good together in the ship where it matters. 

“It’s okay,” I say again. 

Maybe my fighter knows I’m tough now, knows he can trust me, and I’m not thinking about that kiss even though maybe I should. But it wasn’t cruel, he didn’t bite a scar into me or grope me, he just kissed me before battle because maybe he thinks I’m cute. 

I feel sick and dizzy, queasy, confused, but I smile at Deimos and tell him it’s okay even though I don’t think he believes me. I don’t think he believes my lies, because Deimos is the kind of friend who knows too much, that’s why he’s my best friend. Logos hurt him, hurt him so badly, I still sometimes have nightmares about finding Deimos so bloody and still, so pale and broken. I have a lot of nightmares, and a nice fighter named Praxis never complained about the noise. 

Deimos slips his hand into mine, and it’s only when I feel his steadiness do I realize I’m shaking. Maybe it’s a nice moment, as nice as we’re going to get at least. The Reliant made it back safe, the Tiberius returned safe to the Voltaire, the Equinox got hit but will be okay, we’ll be okay. 

I think things are going to be okay, because I'm such a good liar I can lie to myself. 


	9. Chapter 9

“You did great out there,” my fighter says. It’s the first words out of his mouth, that wide-smiling sly mouth, lips that kissed me here in the shadow of our ship. 

He grins at me, smirking, so cock-sure and pleased with himself, pleased with me. It’s all kinds of weird and warm, because all I ever wanted was a fighter of my own, I wanted to be top-ranked. I wanted to make them proud, my mother and my aunts, even my dead father, I wanted to make them proud and be top-ranked. 

We’re standing in the shadow of our ship after I spent the night in medical. We both want to know how bad off the Pharaon is, maybe how bad off we are, but the first words out of his mouth are to say I did great. 

“You too,” I say. “Those were some solid shots.”

He shrugs. “You line ‘em up, I take ‘em down. Although you’re pretty fucking crazy for such a cute little thing. Those maneuvers…”

He sounds so impressed, which is weird, just as weird as Abel coming up to me at breakfast and telling me the same -- only much nicer.

_ Ethos -- I mean, sorry, Pathos -- you were amazing! You’ll have to show me how you pulled away from the Voltaire like that. I thought for sure you guys were going to crash into her.  _

And then Keeler, too, he pulled me aside after the briefing and asked about the trick I’d used with the thrusters to avoid getting trapped in the crossfire of the three Colteron ships. I couldn’t explain it very well, it was just a lot of soft stammering and shrugging, so once medical clears me for active flight again I’ll have to run a sim of it for Keeler. 

I have no idea why everyone thinks what I did was so impressive, because I get the data feed off the Pharaon and onto my tablet and see all the things I did wrong. I shouldn’t have spent all that time hiding, I should have remembered it only matters what happens up there, it doesn’t matter what happens in the room. 

“How bad is it?” my fighter asks. 

“I blew the auxiliary core and primer,” I say. “And when we clipped the Voltaire it knocked out --”

“I meant your head,” he says. “I already know about the ship.”

“Oh.” Heat crawls over my face. “Um, I’m okay. I’m on rest for three days. I’m sorry, we won’t be able to do any training together until then.”

He shrugs. “Fine.”

I look up from my tablet to see he’s leaned into the ship, shadow himself in his dark uniform. His eyes are light-colored, not grey like Deimos but startling blue-green, and his hair looks like thick chocolate syrup, all warm and brown when he catches the light. I keep thinking he’ll be dark-skinned and lean, black-haired and black-eyed, that his nose will have a twist to it from brawling. He’s a Logos, so I think he’s my Logos, my first Logos. 

He straightens. “You look pale,” he says. “Feeling faint?”

Then his hand is on my arm, just like when he kissed me, and I do feel faint. I wonder if he’s thinking about kissing me again, if he wants to because he thinks I’m cute or because he’s a fighter, wild and dangerous, my fighter like I always wanted. 

“Pathos?”

Is he going to kiss me? His face is so close. I feel sick and dizzy, confused like waking up in medical, oh gosh maybe I am going to --

I was out, I know it by the way I gasp and jerk. It’s coming awake without knowing I was asleep, all sudden and abrupt like that with it just being one thing and then another. 

Nothing black and rattling, no blood in my mouth, I can’t believe I really fainted like that but medical did tell me to rest. I probably shouldn’t have gone to look at the ship, I probably should have just gone to my room and laid down, taken it easy like medical said. 

Now I’m in my room, I’ve woken up at the last possible moment, I’ve woken up as my fighter lays me on to the bed. Not medical, I fainted and he didn’t take me to medical, he took me back to my room and now he’s alone in the room with me, putting me into my bed. 

He chuckles some as seeing me awake, even though I come awake gasping and flinching. He’s already got me in the bed, already straightening to look down on me lying there so helpless in a bed. 

“You really smacked yourself good flying like that, huh?” he asks. “I shouldn’t be surprised, look.” He shrugs out of his uniform jacket, oh gosh he’s taking off his jacket why is he doing that -- he turns to show me his shoulder, the mottled black-and-blue mess of it. I hit my head and he hit his shoulder, all that terrible bruising over lean hard muscle he’s showing me with a smirk on his wide-smiling face. 

“Better than getting flattened into the side of a class-C though.” He laughs, this is all very amusing to him, I’m lying helpless in a bed and he just thinks it’s funny.

My fighter sits on the bed, he sits on my bed. He traps me into the bed by sitting on the edge of it, so I’m skin-crawling and stomach-twisting but just staring at him.

“Gonna faint on me again?” he asks, frowning. I can’t tell if that means he’s worried or upset, if he’s thinking I’m weak and pathetic for going down like that, for going out so suddenly. If he hadn’t started shouting for me during that spiral, would I have woke up enough to pull us out of it?

“No. I’m okay, sorry. I feel okay now.” Soft and stupid, my little stammer telling lies. 

“Good,” he says. He smirks, but I wonder if that’s just his smile, if he always looks like he’s sly and smirking. 

When he reaches for me, I don’t flinch. It’s the biggest lie ever to hold still and let him paw at my hair, cup my cheek. “You’re so cute,” he says. 

Logos always called me cute, called me  _ cutie  _ so that I’d blush, feel warm and weird. 

I think I might scream if he doesn’t stop touching me, this fighter of mine, he’s touching my face and then rubbing a hand over my chest with that same little smirk. His eyes are bright, eager and wild. He leans down and presses that wide-smiling mouth into mine. 

Hot heat and cold, so cold, toe-curling cold so I shiver and shake as he presses into me with a kiss. All my little lies bubble over and burst, so these soft stupid sounds get swallowed into the plunge and claim of his tongue. He spreads his hand over my chest and shifts onto the bed, he straddles over me so I can feel heft and heat, weight and pressure, a hard cock in his pants pressing into my thigh. 

_ Please stop, please stop, please stop _ \--

Lies, so many lies, I’m kissing him back with all these lies because I’m so scared to tell the truth, so fucking scared I might scream. I can’t be here, I can’t have this happen, I wasn’t supposed to be alone in the room with him. 

Gasps escape my throat as he kisses it, sucks his teeth into my pulse and smooths that hand of his under my shirt. Those gasps get to escape but I’m trapped. His fingers brush the flat planes of my chest, the soft divots where I’m all skin and no muscle, all pale and pathetic. 

He’s lean and hard muscle, roped strength that shifts and flexes against me. “Don’t faint on me again,” he says with a laugh. His voice is husky, hot with desire and thick with lust. I don’t know if he means that as a warning or if he’s trying to be nice, trying to ask if I’m okay because medical says I need to rest and this what he’s doing, it isn’t using the bed to rest. 

Lies, so many lies, I don’t even know what kind of lies I’m giving because I’m nothing, I want to be nothing so I become nothing. It’s not me in the bed, it’s not my milk-pale body he’s stripping out of a cream-colored uniform. 

Buzzing, all that buzzing, all those angry hornets and, oh, it’s the door, it’s Deimos, it has to be Deimos even though his arm is broken. Who else would be buzzing like this at our door, now that we’re alone in the room. 

“Goddammit,” he grumbles. His hands are on my belt, where are my hands? My hands are on his belt, I’m such a good little liar, I’m so good at being nothing like this, so good at being nothing for this fighter of mine.

He pushes up from the bed, my fighter goes to the door of our room. “Stay there,” he says to me. He winks, like this is all so fun, so funny. He goes to the door shirtless, bare-chested, he’s so muscled and strong, all lean and dangerous, my fighter just like I always wanted, a fighter of my own here in the room with me. 

The door opens, of course it’s Deimos standing there with his arm in a sling, swaddled in bandages and useless. He’s right-handed, it’s his right arm in the sling, his right hand that hangs limp and swollen with the fingers numb. 

“What the fuck do you want?” my fighter asks. 

Deimos stares at him, not looking ready for a fight this time because he knows he can’t fight with a broken arm. I’m not sure what he’s trying to say with his face, but by the way my fighter arches a brow and looks interested I know it’s a secret they share.

My fighter smirks, that’s just the way he smiles I think. He asks Deimos, “You looking to trade again, now that your big bodyguard’s gone?”

I have no idea what that means, except maybe I do, maybe it’s a lot of things I didn’t understand at the time slowly coming together. I’m missing too many of the pieces for it to truly make sense, except I remember rumors and bruises, Deimos wandering around looking dazed and sad, all the struggle and trouble between Deimos and my fighter -- that nice man named Marcus who shared the room with me and never complained about the noise. 

From the bed I can see Deimos. I prop myself up on my elbows some, I’m lying there in the bed just as bare-chested as my fighter, the both of us half undressed and alone in the room. Deimos is so carefully controlled, so tense, his eyes don’t flinch or flicker as he stares up at my fighter but I know he sees me, I know he sees me lying in the bed. 

Deimos doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t do anything except stare for a moment too long to be normal so I know he sees me. His head goes up and down in a short, jerky nod. And then he points at me, point right past my fighter into the room at me in the bed lying there trapped even though I could get up, no one’s holding me down, I could get up and walk away if I wanted. I don’t even know if my fighter would stop me, if he thinks I’m cute or if he’s being cruel. 

My fighter turns to follow the line of Deimos’ hand, and he looks confused for a moment. Then he says, “Pathos isn’t mine to trade.”

It startles Deimos so much that he shows it, that he forgets to be blank-faced and neutral. His eyes flick into the room, flick over to me, before jumping back to my fighter. His lips curl into a smile, it isn’t a very nice smile, it’s one of those knives across his face that’s all edges and sharp.

I see his lips move and maybe don’t hear the soft little whisper, maybe I only think I hear it because I see the blade of his lips cut the sound. “Fine.” 

His arm drops out of the point, and he takes a deliberate step back. His head leans back, his shoulder rolls, he’s pointing somewhere else without lifting his arm. “Usual’s fine.”

My fighter frowns again and then turns to look back at me for a moment. I have no idea what kind of lie is over my face, I am too much of nothing to think about that. I’m watching this and not saying a word.

“Later,” my fighter says. “I’m busy right now.”

Deimos shakes his head. “Now,” he insists. And then he says, “Make it good,” and says it with sultry-sharp promise so I’m cold, so cold, realizing what kind of lies Deimos is telling, what kind of fight he’s going to have for me because I can’t fight for myself. Deimos is a fighter, he’s such a fighter, so tough and deadly and he’s killing something for me now even though I didn’t ask him to do this, I want to beg him not to do this. 

Which is what gets me out of the bed, gets me across the room. So many lies I tell, all my small lies, but this is the biggest lie of all because I can’t let Deimos fight for me like this. I just can’t, I’ll hate myself forever if I let him do this for me. 

I slip my arms around my fighter’s waist. I lean into his back, I lean into all that hot heat and strong muscle. He’s strong under my hands, so musky and warm, he’s a wild and dangerous fighter, a fighter of my own like I always wanted. 

“Go away,” I say to Deimos. Such a sweet little lie, such a sweet little pout on my dimple cute face. I smile and squeeze my fighter, wrap myself close against his back with so much promise, all those lies. “We’re busy right now.” And then I giggle, so soft and cute, shy and blushing like I don’t know what we could possibly be doing that makes us so busy, alone and half-dressed in this room with the beds. 

My fighter smirks, I can see him smiling, I’m leaned around my fighter and looking up at him with a cute dimpled smile as he looks down at me with that wide sly smile, with those bright blue-green eyes. I’m just seeing black on black, my Logos so wild and lean, so dangerous and dark. I’m looking at memory and feeling confused, so dizzy and sick as I say my lies so sweet and cute. 

I glance over at Deimos. I see the hurt over his face, the confusion, the way he suddenly doesn’t understand anything and looks so scared for it. He takes another step back and stares at me like he’s seeing a stranger. It’s such a pretty lie, such a cute lie, so many good lies over my face as my squeeze my fighter around the waist. 

My fighter reaches for the panel. “Later, though,” he says to Deimos. He laughs, all husky and low, chuckling like this is so fun, so funny. The door closes to leave us alone in the room. 

 


	10. Chapter 10

_They’ve posted fresh rankings from the latest dogfight, the latest sim runs, I look at the rankings and start at the bottom, like I always do. I keep going up. I scan through the rankings and see the Nereid up top, the very tip top, we’re number one and there’s a big smile on my face when I see it. We’re number one, the top-ranked team. It’s suddenly all kinds of butterflies and fluttery, I can’t wait to tell my fighter we’re the top-ranked team._

_Do the fighters look at the rankings, do they see the same numbers? Are their briefings like this, gathered around and looking at numbers and charts? I’ll have to ask him, maybe I’ll ask him, my fighter doesn’t always like it when I ask so many questions so maybe I won’t ask him at all. All kinds of butterflies and fluttery, because I can’t wait to see my fighter._

_Soon as it’s over I race through the halls, walking quick and eager to meet with my fighter. We’ll run a sim together, we usually do, once he’s had his briefing and I’ve had mine. Do they look at the rankings, do they see the same numbers? I walk even quicker, a big smile on my face, I could practically be skipping. I can’t wait to see my fighter and tell him him we’re top-ranked._

_Oh, there he is, my dark-skinned fighter so wild and dangerous, so handsome and muscled. He’s everything I ever wanted, all my wild and dark fantasies, and he’s mine all mine! Oh, I just want to shout sometimes because this dark fighter of mine is all mine, and tells me so often that I’m his, all his._

_“Logos!” I call. I wave and break into a short, silly run. I burst up to him with a wide, dimpled smile and see him smile back, such a sweet boyish grin._

_“Hey, cutie,” he says. He’s so handsome, so tall and strong, I can’t wait to get him alone in our room. I have to tuck my hands behind my back to keep from touching him, from hugging him._

_I hug my hands behind my back and bounce on my toes. “Did you see the rankings?” I ask._

_“No,” he says, but his smile says it’s a lie. “Where are we on the rankings? Are we up near the top?” He leans forward, leans his face down to mine and gives me that boyish sweet grin._

_I know I must be blushing, my face feels so hot. I’m so dizzy and warm, like always when my fighter gets close. “We’re number one! Logos, we’re at the very top.”_

_“Are we?” he asks. He loves to tease me, he likes to make me blush and squirm so my face gets hot, I get so dizzy and warm._

_“Let’s go to the room,” I say. “Let’s go now.”_

_He straightens and sneers, arches his brow. “What would we do there?” His dark eyes flash, his expression gets lean, he’s so wild and exciting._

_Oh, I shouldn’t have said that, I shouldn’t have been so eager. I’ve worked so hard at understanding my fighter, at knowing what to do, I want him to like me -- I want him to love me -- he’s mine and all mine like I’m his, all his, so I know I shouldn’t have said that and been so eager._

_“N-nothing,” I stammer. My voice is soft-spoken and sweet. “I just thought we could celebrate, um, relax a little instead of run the sim -- we’re number one, Logos! We’re the top-ranked team.”_

_That was the right thing to say, I know that makes him happy. I know he likes being the best, having the best, he likes my cute smile so I smile up at him so dizzy and warm._

_“Yeah, because of practice.” He laughs and ruffles my hair. “We’ll celebrate tonight, cutie.”_

_So we run through the sim, we run through it twice, my hands fly and caress the glow of the nav panel like I want to caress my fighter. I want to run my fingers through the softest parts, the hardest parts, I want to feel all of my fighter because he’s mine all mine, just like I always wanted. He’s so wild and dangerous, but I understand him better now, I was so silly and new about it at first. So fresh-scrubbed and academy fresh, such a soft silly navigator, a cute virgin slut who didn’t know what he wanted -- but I’m different now, I understand my fighter better now, and we’re a top-ranked team because of how good we are together._

_My fighter is so good to me, he’s mine all mine, I want to be better, I want to be the best -- he likes having the best. His voice calls to me, I call back to him, it’s music we make in a well-rehearsed chorus, all the sims that we run and the battles we’ve fought. We’re the best on the Sleipnir, the top-ranked team._

_Numbers and data scroll over the corners, but my eyes are focused on the glowing red symbols marking our targets. I need to focus, make this sim as perfect as the last, so I gather my wandering thoughts and focus._

_We roll, smooth and easy, banking in a large, pretty sweep to get the advantage, to get the position. “Ready, Logos?”_

_“You betcha, cutie.”_

_He’d never call me that in the ship, where we’re live over the com lines, but inside the sim we’re silent to the outside world -- we can say anything we want to each other while we do this, we can pretend to be serious or he can call me cutie so I’ll blush and smile even though if this were real that kind of thing might get us killed. I have to focus, but he makes me so nervous, he’s so wild and exciting. My heart beats faster just to look at him. He’s so handsome, so strong, when we sleep at night I can feel all those hard angles, all that strength that holds me close and tight._

_Little red targets, I smile at them and sweep my fingers like a caress around the glow. “Take the shot, Logos.”_

_My breath catches, each little red target flickering. Oh, he’s so good, my fighter is so good, so good to me because I’m his, all his. There’s return fire so we duck left, sweep right, I loop us tight and fast with a big, wide smile. “One more pass! We got this, I got this -- you ready, Logos?”_

_“Born ready, cutie.” He laughs, triumphant and gleeful, I can hear the bursting pride in his voice because he likes the way I fly, he likes having me as his navigator I know it. I know we’re a top-ranked team, so good together._

_It’s gliding and flying, my hands caressing that glow -- I love this, I love being a navigator, I’m part of a top-ranked team like I always wanted. I’m going to make my family proud, I can’t wait to send a message home to my mother and my aunts. Would they ever let my fighter into the house, ever let his dark show spot the parlor like stray soot?_

_It’s two more passes, until all those little targets are gone, my wonderful fighter taking down all the targets I get lined up for him. We’re so good together, he’s so good. I can’t wait to be done with the sim and be back in the room._

_I smile at him over the seat divider, he’s so handsome in his black flight suit. It’s so shiny under the lights, so black and dark, he’s such a wild shadow, so beautifully black and dark, so wild -- oh gosh, I’ve gone stupid and silly. I can’t think of anything besides him, he’s all mine._

_It’s floating footsteps, cute smiles for everyone I see for the rest of the day, for the time it takes us to eat dinner. I sit with the other navigators, he never sits with me because that’s the way it is. Fighters to one side, navigators to the other, we’re together for sims and at the ship and in the room but the rest of the time we’re separate. I’m a navigator and he’s a fighter, but I wish we could be together all the time. I want him with me always, I love looking across the mess hall to watch him eat, to watch him sit with his fighter friends and laugh._

_Oh, I’m just so much soft and silliness, so stupid but I don’t care because I’m part of a top-ranked team. We’re alone in our room at last, and the moment the door closes he is all over me because I’m his._

_I whine and fist my hands at my sides to keep from touching him. I just want to run my hands all over him, I want to feel his strong muscles flexing as he pins me into the ladder of the bunks. He kisses me with so much possession, so much control, of he’s so strong and I love it, I love the way he kisses me._

_He lets me kiss him back, he likes the way I kiss. He likes the tangle and push of our tongues, the feel my soft lips between his teeth. His hands, those big strong hands of his, they pinch and twist at my nipples so that I whine and cry about it, want him to touch me elsewhere._

_I’m throbbing for him, eager for him, weak-kneed and desperate. “Please, oh please -- don’t,” I say. All these lies, he loves my lies and I’ll give him all the lies he wants because I understand him a little better now. It’s so wild and exciting to let him push me into the bottom bunk._

_“No,” I moan. He bites at my neck, my shoulder, he’s going to put a mark into me, one of those red rosebud marks because I’m his, he’s mine. It makes me moan louder, “No…!”_

_My fingers clutch and knead at the bed when he flips me and pushes my head down, a fight fist in my hair. Tears sting my eyes, I want to let go of this bed and touch him so badly. It’s such a wicked sin, such a dirty impulse, I’m desperate to touch him like he’s touching me._

_“Please, Logos,” I whisper. Oh, I can barely think straight, barely remember how he likes me to lie. He has to know I like this, I love him, he has to know that even though I’ll never, ever say it. What I do say is, “Stop,” and try not to caress out the word._

_He groans, oh he likes that, I know he likes that, maybe he loves this and maybe he loves me and I want us to be together forever, my fighter and I. We’re a top-ranked team, we’re the best. We’re so good together and he’s so good to me._

_“Stop!” I cry the word, beg him with all those lies. I don’t want him to stop, I might start screaming if he stops, because he’s so rough and wild, so exciting and dangerous, and he’s mine all mine._

_He snarls and tightens that hand he has in my hair, pulls on my milk-blond curls until I really do start to cry, until it hurts too much and I really do I have to gasp, “No! No, stop! Wait, Logos--!”_

_I hear him laugh, so husky and low, I feel his cock into my thigh eager and dripping. “What’s wrong, cutie?”_

_“You’re hurting me,” I whimper. “Logos, that hurts.”_

_He tugs on my hair so I whine a sharp cry, and I wonder if he knew I was lying before when I told him to stop. His tongue runs over the back of my neck, over my shoulder, his teeth rake my skin as he thrusts into me as sharp as my cries._

_His hands feel over my body and caress every inch of pale-freckle skin and awkward pudgy softness. “Ah, fuck, cutie,” he groans. “Fuck, you’re so good. So tight.”_

_Oh, oh, now nothing hurts, I’m not scared at all, it’s just warm and wonderful feelings because he thinks I’m good, he’s liking this, he must like me. We’re so good together, we’re top-ranked. I hear my own harsh breathing, all those soft cries, my face is damp with tears but I don’t care. The rocking motions go faster and faster, so my vision glazes and things get distant, my breathing slows into shallow puffs and I quiet. I can’t even lie to him now, it’s that delirious nothing that happens sometimes to me when he gets like this. I’m detached, vacant, an observer trapped in my body as he pushes faster and harder._

_But I never want him to stop, I never want this to stop, I understand my fighter a little better now and that’s just the way this is, so wild and exciting because sometimes he doesn’t need it to be this way, sometimes just my lies are enough, and I haven’t figured out yet just why that is, just what I should do to make it so he likes me, so maybe he’ll love me like I love him._

_Later he pushes me into the shower, orders me to get clean. I stumble and stagger because he was rougher than usual, harder on me so that there’s a little blood streaking my legs when I scrub clean the shower. My hands move so slow, they’re shaking, it’s moving underwater as the shower streams over me hot and steaming. I tip my face into the spray and am relieved to feel the grit of tears washed clean just like the rest of me._

_I stand there under the spray for a long time, enjoying the feeling of nothing in particular. I’m thinking nothing in particular either, just standing there, and when I step back and open my eyes there’s a dark shadow in the shower with me._

_“Oh!” I gasp and nearly slip on the wet tile._

_His hand grabs my arm to steady me, and there’s that handsome, boyish grin all over his face. “Hey, cutie,” he says, and he sounds so happy. It puts a big smile right over my face._

_He takes the soap and runs it over my back, even though I’d already scrubbed clean. He scrubs me again, head to toe, lathers white foam over my white skin and kisses parts of me as he gets them rinsed clean. He kisses my elbows and wrists, my chest, my belly button, he pushes me into the tile and kisses my lips so I melt and get dizzy, warm._

_His hands slide over all that clean, pale, soft skin of mine. I moan and whisper, “Stop.”_

_And he does, he pulls away. I open my eyes to stare at him and find him staring back at me, but I can’t understand anything about the suddenly serious expression on his face. Now that I’ve caught him at it, he gets all cock-sure and wild -- he sneers and laughs, pinches my side. “You don’t want me to stop,” he says._

_Heat rises in my face, more heat than even the hot spray of the shower. I shake my head._

_“You like this,” he says. “You like getting fucked.”_

_Insists it at me, so that I nod. My head bounces eagerly, and it’s just so much soft and stupid that stammers out of me. “I do, I like it. I - like you.”_

_I think he might get mad at me for it, I think maybe I shouldn’t have said that, and my heart slams against my ribs so hard and fast that I feel dizzy in a bad way, think I might puke or faint._

_But my fighter, he just chuckles all low and husky. His dark eyes are warm, bright, his handsome smile so boyish and sweet. “Yeah? You like me, cutie?”_

_I’m so scared. He touches my shoulder and then sweeps his fingers over my arm. He pulls me off the tile and against him, all the heat and strength of his body close against mine. I need him to hold me like this, I need him to keep me upright as he asks, “Do you love me, cutie?”_

_And I am so scared, so embarrassed, my knees are shaking. I need him to let me go, because I’m going to throw up if I have to say anything, I’m going to faint if I have to force my body to move._

_“You’re mine, you know,” he says. “You’re mine.”_

_“Yours,” I whisper. “Yours, Logos. I’m yours.”_

_“Do you love me?” he asks again. His voice is as soft and warm as his smile, as his hands as they caress me. He ducks his head down and kisses my throat so gentle and sweet. He tips my head back and kisses at my throat so it softens the lump, softens out that spinny-sick sensation where I think I might vomit or collapse at any moment._

_“Yes.” I just whimper it at him, eyes fluttering closed as I melt into his strong hands like snow. “I do. I’m sorry.”_

_The warmth of his chuckle goes straight into the too-quick beat of my pulse. “Why’re you sorry, cutie?”_

_“I don’t know.”_

_He laughs again, so low and throaty that it sends me into shivers. He turns off the shower and pulls me from the wet tiled enclosure. I see us in the mirror for a moment, just a brief glimpse of my paleness against his darkness. He scoops me up like it’s nothing, all my little weight lifted into his strength._

_My arms go around his neck. I feel at the short buzz of his dark hair, at all those dense, tight little curls he keeps so short and orderly. He bends me into him so we kiss, lips wet and warm. He carries me out of the bathroom, back into our little room, and over to the bottom bunk. He lays me into it with such exquisite softness, so gentle as he lays me into the bed despite the way we’re both still wet, my tousle of curls dripping into the pillows._

_He kisses me, lets me kiss him back, and when I forget and set my hands on his shoulders that’s okay, too. I breathe slow and heavy, fingers trembling as I feel over his muscles and heat. His lips work against mine, painfully soft and gentle, as our bodies fit together in a tangle of knees and thighs, hips, elbows and ribs. All my soft angles, all his hard ones, they fit together._

_I brush a hand along the side of him and get all the way to his hip. He rolls onto his back and lets me get on top of him. He lets me feel over him like I’ve wanted to do so desperately, so I grow hot and wild myself, get excited and know this is dangerous -- but I can’t stop, I can’t have this stop, I’m silent except for soft little gasps as I get to feel at him at last with my hands._

_“Go on,” he urges. He’s smiling at me, that boyish grin so handsome across his face._

_I glance at him, know I must have the stupidest, stunned look on my face. This isn’t happening, this can’t be happening, I must have fainted in the shower so I’m trembling as I hunch between his knees. I feel at him, fumble my hands over him in ways that are clumsy because I don’t know what I’m doing. I keep thinking he’s going to stop me, I’m so scared he’s going to stop me._

_“Logos?” My whisper sounds so scared. I press my lips to his cock, nuzzle at the flesh. “Logos…”_

_“Go on,” he says again._

_Trembling, I’m so scared. He’s going to stop me at any moment. I’ve never done this. I just nuzzle at him, my back teeth clenched tight to keep the shivers from making them chatter._

_“Need me to show you how?” he asks. There’s warmth to the way he offers, so I glance up along the length of his lean, hard body and nod._

_He sets a hand into my wet hair and curls his fingers. Water squeezes from the coarse strands, my hair is so thick and tangles so easily even though it’s milk-blond and looks like it should be soft. Water squeezes and runs over my cheeks like tears as he pulls me forward. I nuzzle at him, teeth clenched so tight and lips pressed closed._

_“Mouth open, cutie.” Now he’s laughing some, this is very amusing to him, and maybe it is. I don’t know why I should be so scared to do this when it’s what I want, what I offered by kneeling down here and nuzzling at him._

_I relax, flash him a smile and let my lips fall open. His cock slides into my mouth, and I moan for all that thick heat tasting so clean, the dark skin so soft-velvet over the hardness of his arousal. I’m the one who gets him this way, there’s something to all my pudgy softness and pale-freckle skin that he likes. There’s something about me that he likes, so I’m warm all the way through and eager enough to let him coax my head into an up and down bob._

_His fingers curl against the back of my head. “Fuck, cutie. Fuck, yeah.”_

_Oh, he likes this. He likes me. I know he does -- oh, I told him, I told him I love him and now we’re doing this strange, wonderful, beautiful thing where I’m getting to touch him like this. My hands flex into his thighs as I moan and whisper praises with my lips over his cock._

_He pulls me closer as his hips lift, I can hear him panting and groaning. His thigh shivers and he pulls me closer, closer, so he slips so deep into my throat that I gag. Oh, that’s embarrassing, I’m so sorry but I can’t tell him that. I try to jerk back but he’s holding me in place with a hand against the back of my head. Water drips out of my hair, squeezes from the coarse strands as he squeezes me close._

_I push at his thighs with growing urgency, struggle to get my head back so I can breathe, so I won’t choke and gag like this where it’s so embarrassing. He grips me in his strong hand and moans. He thrusts into my mouth like he thrusts into my body, hard and fast, just a few quick strokes before it’s all this sharp, salty tang across the back of my mouth, down my throat._

_I sputter and choke, this is so embarrassing, I wanted to do something sexy and confident. I feel like I might cry because this isn’t what I wanted, I wanted to do something nice for him. I wanted to act like I knew what I was doing, just once, I wanted to feel like I knew anything at all about what we were doing._

_He lets go, and I jerk back. I tumble off the bed and fall to my hands and knees, coughing and choking. Saliva and semen pours out of my mouth as I spit and shudder, shake and moan. “Sorry,” I gasp. “Sorry, sorry, sorry--” each one choking, each one ragged and raw, desperate. Tears sting my eyes, and I sob. “I’m sorry, Logos --”_

_I hear him laugh, I feel his hands caress over my shoulders so gently. He leans over the edge of the bed to pet at me, and it’s like a hug as he wraps over my back. “Relax, cutie. Just relax.”_

_I lift my head up, tears streaming and such a mess that I feel horrified to let him see. I sniffle and scrub a hand over my mouth, my chin, try to get cleaned up a little so it’s not so embarrassing. He’s smiling, all boyish and sweet, so that I have to smile back._

_He slips from the bed and pulls me to my feet. He puts us back into the shower, but it’s quick this time. Just enough to splash water over my face. He cleans me, wipes the washcloth over my face and laughs whenever I try to apologize again, meek and shy with it rather than terrified. He doesn’t seem upset, he seems so happy with me, so it’s all kind of a butterflies and fluttery._

_This time he takes a towel and wraps me in it, rubs another towel through my hair. He fusses at me, so gentle and sweet, gets me all clean and dry before taking me back to the bed. We crawl in together even though the space is so narrow, even though he has a top bunk to use. He wraps us both up in the blankets and pulls my close against his body, all my soft angles fitting into his hard ones._

_His lips work lazily into the back of neck, his hand rubs slow over my ribs. He holds me so close, so warm and strong against me. I’m drowsy and limp, eyes closed and the room dark, everything quiet except for the puff of his breath into my ear. Everything wonderful, everything perfect, I love this fighter of mine and he knows it, he knows I’m his -- all his -- like he’s mine, all mine, and we’re a top-ranked team so they’ll never split us apart. It’ll always be like this, wonderful and perfect._


	11. Chapter 11

I wouldn’t be doing this, except Deimos is the kind of friend who is my best friend, so I know I have to do this. I saw him staring across the mess hall at breakfast, lunch, dinner -- it’s been an entire day of Deimos just staring at me, trying to pull all my secrets out from the lie of my face, the lie of my steady hands and bright smile.

My hand presses at the panel again, and I can hear the buzzer on the other side of the door. Maybe he isn’t in his room, but I don’t know where else he could be except for down in the fighter base -- and there is no way I am going down there. No way I want to go back to my room, either, because I bet my fighter is waiting for me so we can be alone in the room again.

I don’t want to think about it, so I won’t think about it. That didn’t happen to me, I was nothing last night. Nothing happened to me, because I was nothing. It wasn’t my milk-pale body getting stripped out of a cream-colored uniform, it wasn’t my sweet voice gasping all those lies so I wouldn’t get hurt. My fighter, this wild and dangerous fighter of mine, he’s different and the same, so it’s memory and confusion and I think I might not be able to do this.

I don’t know, I don’t know anything anymore. I am lying with every inch of me, lying with every breath and heartbeat. I am so confused even though my head feels okay, I took it easy and got a lot of rest by sitting around in the navigator’s room. I looked at some charts with Abel, he’s so nice and pretty, and when we’re alone in the navigator’s room where it’s just bright and white with no dark shadows -- when we’re alone, I don’t have to worry about Deimos seeing us and feeling hurt, because Abel loves Cain and Deimos has a lot of confusing and weird feelings for Cain.

If this door doesn’t open I might scream. I might scream anyway, if I have to be anything, if I have to be Pathos again. Last night, alone in the room with my fighter, something happened that I’m not going to think about.

My hand slams against the panel, so the buzzer goes and goes and goes. I just need this door to open, I need Deimos right now, I need a friend who understands. I need someone who understands so I don’t have to explain, so I don’t have to say anything, so I can be nothing and cry out all this hurt. Oh damn, oh fuck, please let this door open because Deimos isn’t here, if I have to be alone then I can’t do this. I just can’t.

I’m sobbing when the door slides open. That’s embarrassing, that’s awful, but the door opens and I launch myself forward without thinking. I grab hold of this small, slim, just-my-size friend and squeeze like I can possibly squeeze myself silent.

“What the fuck?”

A snippy voice, sharp and loud, nothing secretive or whispery about it, and the body I’m squeezing is stiff and alert. Cream-colored, soft, little muscles and pretty.

“Phobos!” I jerk back, wide-eyed and horrified. Tears slip over my cheeks, and I slap at them. It stops my sobs at least, I am so awkward and awful in that single moment that I wish it was nothing, I wish I was nothing, I wish this wasn’t happening because it’s _Phobos_ at the door.

He stares at me. His hair is messy instead of sleek, all those soft strands tousled around like maybe he was sleeping except it’s not that late, it’s pretty early for him to have been asleep. He has his tablet in one hand, and he curls it toward his chest as he continues to just stare at me.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he demands. “If you’re looking for Deimos, he’s not here.”

“Oh.”

He’s not lying, I can see beyond him into the empty room plain enough to see that he’s not lying. So Deimos has to be somewhere else, maybe in the fighter base or maybe with Cain, maybe he’s running laps. I don’t know, but he’s not here.

Phobos frowns at me and then rakes a hand back through his hair to settle out the messy strands. It parts so sleek and soft beneath his slim, delicate fingers. “What, are you hurt?” he asks.

Almost like maybe he cares about the answer, even though sometimes he’s so mean to me that it makes me cry. He and Porthos once sat through an entire briefing throwing paper clips into my hair, like stupid little kids about it. I got teased a lot in school, so I wanted to be tough and tell them to stop, but I just ignored them and cried about it later.

“Oh. Um, no,” I say. “I just … wanted to see Deimos.”

Phobos tilts his head to the side and gives me a sly smile. “Are you making a move on him, now that Praxis gone? You’re such a cute slut.”

I have no idea why I do it. I don’t even think it’s my hand that does it, except we’re the only two around so it has to be me. It has to be my hand that flies forward and slaps the catty smile right off his face. I slap Phobos so his cheek is red, so his eyes get wide, so he lifts a hand to his red cheek and stares at me.

“Shut up!” I hiss. Oh, maybe my eyes are flashing, maybe I look tough, but oh my gosh I just slapped Phobos and that’s not nice of me at all! Wet and grit streak over my cheeks. Oh, no, oh no, I’m crying again. My breath hitches and breaks. “Shut up,” I say again, only it’s a sob.

He stammers, “I’m sorry,” so it’s even more awkward and awful.

I put my face into my hands. Sob, broken and wretched, it’s a terrible noise that I make. I start to shake, because this is so awful and awkward, so tense and terrible, I cannot believe I am doing this. It’s like I’m nothing, only it’s really happening and I feel it too much. I can’t escape. I’m trapped in this milk-pale body and can’t go away, can’t force myself distant so it hurts less.

“Ethos? Fuck, Ethos, what…? Get in here,” he says. Phobos grabs my hand and tugs me into the room. His voice gets brisk, bossy. “Stop crying. You’re being pathetic, stop it.”

I need this, I need someone to order me around and he’s right, I am being pathetic. I try to stop but just choke instead, all this hurt and confusion, all this fear and terror, it’s overwhelming me so I’m drowning. I’m drowning and can’t breathe. It’s just gasps and sobs, shaking and breaking, I’ve broken.

Phobos bullies me over to one of the beds. Maybe his, maybe Deimos’, I don’t know anything more than sitting on a bed and feeling his hands grip my shoulders. He shakes me. “Hey, stop crying. What the hell is wrong with you?”

A lot of wrong with me, everything is wrong with me, especially the way his question makes me blubber into a shattering, wet laugh. I push my palms into my cheeks and scrub my hands over my face. Slowly, so slow it’s painful and it hurts, everything hurts but I manage to shift into these small, hiccuping sniffles that are less wretched and desperate.

Small, delicate hands press a glass of water at me. “Here.”

I curl my hands -- pale, small, blunt-edged nails and thick knuckles -- I curl them around the glass and nearly spill it over myself before getting a few gulps down.

Phobos stands there in front of me looking wary, staring down at me along the refined arch of his little nose. His eyes are a startling blue-green, kind of like my fighter’s, but so much shinier and, oh, he actually looks kind of worried.

“Do I need to take you to the med bay?” he asks.

I shake my head. It’s just a soreness, an ache I never forgot but haven’t felt in a while. My fighter wasn’t cruel with it, wasn’t so hard and rough that I bled. I’m not hurt where it shows, not hurt anywhere that medical can fix. Not hurt anywhere I can fix.

“Well. Okay, if you’re sure.” He doesn’t know what to say, but he says things anyway. He’s chatty that way, always has to say something in his simpering, breathy little voice. He has a pretty voice and a pretty face, delicate and kind of girly with his wispy long hair. He’s lucky he has such a nice fighter like Deimos.

Phobos crosses his arms over his chest. “You can wait here for Deimos, if you want. So long as you don’t start bawling again. I was just to good part.”

“Oh. Um, okay. Thanks.” I hush the words around the thick lump in my throat. I lift the hem of my uniform top and use it to brush my cheeks and wipe my nose. “What good part?”

He turns from me and goes across the room to the other bed. His bed, obviously, since he sits on it and picks back up his tablet. “In my book. I was reading, before you interrupted with hysterics. Are you done crying?” He peered across at me suspiciously, eyes narrowing and pretty pale brows plucking together.

My head bobs in a nod. “Um, sorry. Phobos, I’m sorry I - I slapped you.” Heat rushes into my face.

He shrugs and looks aside. He settles on to his stomach and pulls the tablet under him so the screen sets his face into a glow. “It’s fine.”

I just watch him for a moment, unsure what to say but not liking the silence. I glance at the door and turn the glass of water around in my hands. My fighter would never think to look for me here, or maybe this is the first place he’d think to look, but the door is locked.

“Um, what’s your book about?”

Phobos slides his gaze over to me, and I know by the way his mouth flattens that he’s not happy about the interruption. He doesn’t answer and just looks back down at the screen. His finger scrolls the text up, and for a while I just sit there watching him. His eyes move across the screen and every so often he scrolls to see more of the text.

He shifts, leaning close, and then rolls onto his back. It’s rude to stare, but he looks so involved with it that I’m sure he doesn’t notice me staring. The glow fills his face as his eyes widen some, his lips fall open in a silent gasp. He must be at the good part, whatever it is. After a bit of being on his back, he rolls again to be on his stomach. I see now why his hair was so tousled, because he starts to fuss and play at it while he reads. One slim finger curls over and over through the soft, pale strands.

We both startle when the door slides open. Phobos scrambles up from his bed like he’s been caught at something and glares forward at Deimos, of course it’s Deimos at the door.

Those soft, pretty grey eyes of his look only briefly at Phobos before he sees me and they widen. He steps inside and brushes the panel to close the door after him.

Oh, I’m on his bed. I jump to my feet and say, “Sorry.”

Deimos flicks aside the apology with a quick gesture. He walks forward and snips his hand at Phobos. “Go,” he says.

“Fuck off,” Phobos grumbles. “It’s my room.”

And he’s at the good part of the book, so I shake my head and snag Deimos’ hand. “I wanted to talk to you,” I say.

He gives me a look that says the same.

“Come on.” I drag Deimos to the door. We leave Phobos in the room and hurry into the hall. We can’t go to my room, because I’m sure my fighter is there waiting for me. It’s not impossible to find somewhere else to be alone, especially since I can take Deimos into places that are for navigators only. I’d rather be caught by a cream-colored soft thing in uniform than a fighter, lean and dark, wild and dangerous.

I key open the door and get us both inside. I glance around quickly and check on the other side of the display panels. “Okay,” I say. “I think we’re --”

Deimos appears up against me so quickly that I get startled, gasp, stagger back a step but he doesn’t yield. He shoves me into the wall and looks so angry it takes my breath away. His brows are tight, his mouth bracketed, his eyes hard and flashing. He shoves me again, too angry for words, and he just has that one arm to be shoving me with anyway so if he didn’t look so upset it’d almost be funny. But it’s not, it’s not at all funny, and I’m wide-eyed and rigid against the wall.

Then he’s whispering, hissing, sounding so hurt and angry. “Should have told me. Wouldn’t have, wouldn’t have done that. Should have told me!”

Deimos never says this much all at once, he’s shaking with hurt because saying this much hurts him, he’s so hurt and angry because of me. “Should have told me!” he insists.

“Should have told you what? Deimos, I don’t...”

“Like your fighter?” he demands. “Want him? Tried to -- had to -- fucked him for you. Had to, already offered. Should have told me!”

Oh, oh now he’s yelling, it’s yelling for Deimos when his voice gets even raspier and drier, scales up into this terrible soft shriek. My eyes go wide, so wide, they’re going to fall from my face as I stare at Deimos with cold-growing horror. All those perfect lies, not the words that I said but the lies on my face, all those lies that I told without saying a word. 

“No,” I moan. “No, no, Deimos… Deimos, I’m so sorry -- I didn’t, I swear to you, I didn’t --”

I’m crying, he’s crying, he’s shaking with hurt. His chest is heaving, each breath hard and choked with all his hurt and anger. I’m going to hurt him worse when I explain, so for one wild moment I think maybe I shouldn’t explain at all. But I can’t, I can’t do that, I have to be honest with Deimos now that we’re alone. I lied earlier and I’m so sorry for it, so sorry for it -- “Deimos, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, please, I’m sorry.”

I push my palm into my cheeks and scrub hard. “Deimos, I’m sorry. I -- I was just so scared, I didn’t… I lied,” I say. “I lied. I lied, I’m sorry, I lied, I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want you to - to have  to do that, I’m sorry.”

Those soft pretty eyes of his melt. He takes two quick steps back and then turns away -- he can’t let me see his face. His face is saying too much, he can’t lie as well as I can. I understand what he meant, what hurt him so deep. It wasn't that I became nothing and sent him from the room, it isn't that because he'd understand. He saw me fight Logos the only way that I knew, to tell all my lies or beg him to stop -- when I was a scared boy named Aidan, only a soft fresh-scrubbed recruit. 

“Oh Deimos,” I breathe. I don’t know what else to say that won’t hurt him.

Deimos rubs at his face. He’s utterly silent, completely still. His back to me, and I think if I move even an inch he’ll flee. He’s so quick, so tough, so eager to fight. I wish so desperately that he could be my fighter, that I could be his Phobos. Phobos is pretty but a little mean, but then I think about a glass of cold water and the glow of a tablet screen, his pretty mouth parted.

I’m not a Phobos, pretty and lean. I’m Pathos now, and I tell my lies so sweetly -- but I used to be an Ethos, with a nice man named Marcus. And now there’s an Aleks alone in this room with me, the kind of friend who doesn’t know I can fight my own fights, because he’s my best friend and wouldn't care even if he knew. 

“Sorry,” he rasps. It’s barely anything, mostly nothing. He shudders and says again, “So sorry.”

I don’t say anything, because I don’t know what to say. I get up beside him and very slowly move nearer. I get an arm around him for a hug, and he lets me. I’m careful about his broken arm, but he’s not. I have to get my shoulder against his -- he’s so wiry and hard, such a tough little fighter, but he’s just my size and I can be tough too.

“Can I stay in your room tonight?” I ask. “I can’t -- I can’t be alone in that room with Logos.” The words shudder out of me, each one worse than the last. I break on the name and go black, go so incredibly numb. I’m nothing, such nothing, and with a small little fighter catching me tight.

 


	12. Chapter 12

_It’s a new streak, a new personal best. We’re three times in a row of being the best, top-ranked. Before it’d just been two times in a row and then second place or third to break the streak. We’re up near the top but not always the best, not always number one. But this is three times in a row, a new personal best._

_The meeting went late, the battle was tough. We lost four ships in the fight. The Nereid came in limping. I’d blown out both engines and near got us killed -- but it was fancy maneuvering, against five ships, just long enough for reinforcements to hit. We took down one on the way, thanks to my perfect tough fighter._

_I think that I’m tired, I think that it’s late. He might be asleep, because it’s so late. I slide open the door without getting the light, and soon as I’m through I press the door closed. I see only shadows on shadows, so I don’t know where he is, but I hear the noises, these whimpering noises._

_“No, please,” a voice moans. It’s utterly meek, so soft and scared, I slap for the light and for just one wild moment think that it’s me._

_It’s some milk-pale body, a reverse shadow of white beneath my wild fighter, so dark and lean. Light floods the room, he’s the only dark thing and he’s moving above this meek gentle shadow, something white and not me._

_It’s a scream, it’s a shriek, not even his name. Just noiseless rage, incredible fear. I shouldn’t have screamed or gotten the light, I shouldn’t be here. I should have left and I do, I turn to flee. I dart through the door and into the hall. I run and I run, because I shouldn’t have screamed._

_He catches me quick, he’s so strong and lean. He’s gotten his pants but nothing else, no shirt or boots. “Hey, cutie.” He smiles so sharp, I shouldn’t have screamed._

_He puts me into the room, into all that bright light where my shadow sits, a milk-pale white body. It isn’t me on the bed wedged into the corner, it isn’t me looking scared and ready to flee. I don’t know this navigator, he must be new. We lost four ships in the fight, and two in the last. We’ve docked for repairs and taken on new pairs, new ships. He must be new, this sweet little navigator who isn’t me -- it’s not me in the bed._

_I stare my fighter, so wild and lean. I feel my heart breaking, but this isn’t me. I think this is a dream. This happen, it’s memory, but those are the worse._

_“How could you?” I whisper. “Why isn’t it me?”_

_I didn’t say that, this is such a bad dream. I’m going to wake shaking, I might even scream. I need a nice man named Marcus not to say anything about the noise, but I’m dreaming -- this is real -- and I know I can’t scream._

_He’ll hit for me this, the way that I fight. The way that I shriek and hit him, beat him with fists. The broken edges are sharp, my heart has been shattered. I’d stab him if I could, I’d kick him and bite. He’s so much stronger that it isn’t much of a fight._

_I’m not a fighter, just a small navigator. I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming, and I have to wake up. I don’t want to be me. I can’t see anymore, I don’t want to hear. It can’t be me sobbing, trying to shriek. He’ll hit me and break me, it’s never the same. I thought that he loved me, and I beg him to stop. I say it again, I tell him my heart. Even though he broke it, I want him to have it. I want to be his, like he’s mine all mine, except he’s not mine -- he never was. He doesn’t love me, he doesn’t at all._

_It’s awful, I hate it, I need to wake up. I can’t wake up screaming -- I shouldn’t, I can’t. If I’m loud they’ll wake me, that nice man named Marcus, and Deimos --_

It’s Deimos, I know that he’s there. I wake up quick with hardly a gasp. They lights are off in the room except for that small little glow. I know without turning it’s Phobos reading, but I’m facing the wall with Deimos at my back. He’s curled to the edge, I’m curled to the wall. It feels strange without Marcus, that nice man who scared me. I was so stupid, so foolish, so incredibly weak.

I was an Ethos, I wanted to be sweet. I didn’t want to be Pathos, I didn’t want to be me, I couldn't be Aidan -- that fresh-scrubbed recruit. I just wanted to be nothing. I should have worked harder so our rankings could rise and now it's too late, I've been reassigned. I'm dizzy and shaking from the dream, I hated that dream. The dreams are the worse they're real, when they're all about me, I like it better when I'm nothing, when it's eyes closed and then awake. 

My heart is racing, but I didn’t shout. I’m hardly shaking, barely trembling, and maybe I'm only shivering because I’m covered in sweat. I remember walking here, or maybe I don’t. It couldn’t be me, I’d gone numb and distant. I’d become nothing. I couldn’t be me.

I lean up unsteady but try not to stir Deimos, I try to be quiet. I look to that glow and know what I’ll see. It’s a tablet across the room -- a slim white shadow. Phobos plays at his hair, eyes shining and bright, he's leaned in close to the tablet with one slim finger scrolling. 

I bet he’s at the good part again, he looks so intent. His leans closer and gasps, I see his lips part. He doesn’t see me, I doubt that he can. It’s dark in the room and the tablet screen bright. He’s so close, reading intent. I don’t think he sees me at all. Phobos sits up quick and covers his mouth. The tablet comes with him, his eyes so bright on the screen. He blinks quickly and his lips move without sound. His eyes get wet. I don’t think he sees me, I don’t think he can see me at all.

“Oh,” he whispers. He lowers the screen. He stares forward and then lifts the tablet again, but that was enough. He sees me staring -- he’s caught me staring at him from across the room.

His gasp is almost a shriek, like he’s seen a spider or ghost -- he’s not scared of strange shadows, of things in the room. Not with a nice fighter like Deimos, or maybe he’s tough. I bet his eyes flash even tougher than Abel’s. Phobos jumps like he’s startled but doesn’t look scared. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. I think that he's blushing. “You’re awake.”

I don’t remember getting here, but I have must have walked. That one useless arm, the one that Deimos sleeps with out stiff, he couldn’t have carried me with it so I must have walked. I changed for bed, my teeth feel kind of fresh. I did all these things and wasn’t me -- I must have gone distant, truly gone elsewhere. I’d become nothing, all that black time I hate.

"Stop staring like that, you look so creepy." He’s simpering, sneering -- he has to be catty because he thinks I might tease, like I care he was crying for the good parts, or I hope they were good, I didn't mean to make him stop reading. I think he looks worried. He frowns and turns the tablet around at me. "Are you okay?"

It shines toward my face so I squint. I feel Deimos’ stir and hear him hiss. He shifts upright and glares, so Phobos whips the tablet around quick. Deimos squints and he sits, he shifts to the edge of the bed and gives me so much space. They must both see that I’m shaking, that I was sweating so my hair’s gone stiff. It’s stuck to my forehead, and I feel the grit on my cheeks as I rub for my face. There's someone whimpering, and I know that it's me. 

This is awful and awkward because I never made noise when it was Deimos and Praxis, that nice man named Marcus. I don’t know why this had to happen, except maybe that's a lie. I know -- maybe I do know, it's a lie to say I don't. It’s because of what happened, and why my body aches. I’m hurt deep inside where there’s so much ache. I have to be in this room -- I can’t be in mine. I miss my fighter, I wish Deimos was mine. I’d share him with Phobos -- I wouldn’t mind.

I’ve started to cry, so it’s awful and wet. I hate this, I’m crying, I wish it would stop. They both look worried, in different ways, because Phobos is only scared of spiders and ghosts, not shadows in the room. I glance up between my hands as Deimos comes over to hug me, but it’s Phobos I stare at -- because he’s the one staring. His eyes are round, and he looks kind of worried. I’m tired of lying, I don’t want to be tough. I let Deimos hug me, I don’t care that we’re not alone.

Deimos lays down with me, he whispers me quiet. We both ignore Phobos, or at least Deimos does. He’s not going to say a word, so I try to think about the time that’s gone black. I don’t remember what happened, how I got in this bed, what Deimos said or if I said anything, if Phobos even cares. 

I stop crying, it doesn’t take long to stop crying. Deimos looks over at Phobos and snips with his hand.

“Whatever,” huffs Phobos. I’m glad he doesn’t ask again if I'm okay. I wonder what Deimos is saying, if Phobos bothers to look, or if just wants to be reading since he’s at the good part. I’ve got my eyes closed, because I want to be nothing. I’ll fake I’m asleep maybe and won’t sit up again. I can still see the tablet glow. I lie awake thinking and wait for it to stop, for it all to be nothing, but Phobos keeps reading with that pale green glow. It's that glow and then awake, the best kind of nothing. 


	13. Chapter 13

In the morning it’s awkward, twice as much as before. We ride in the lift together, we leave the room together -- we wake up together, the three of us need to share the shower and get dressed in the small room. There’s no privacy, nowhere to change except by taking turns in the shower. It’s wrong balance of people in the room. The mattresses aren’t pushed together, and it’s two cream-colored splotches against one small dark shadow, I’m used to sharing the shower in shifts with two other people but this is the wrong three people. 

Phobos doesn’t bother with changing in the bathroom, or at least he’s fine stripping off his shirt while Deimos is showering and I’m telling lies with an embarrassed smile as I look away. I try not to stare at his slim little chest with perfect pink nubs. Phobos just barely glances at me anyway as he gets ready for the day. He brushes his hair and hums a bit, whisks around the room ignoring us with his tablet held close although it’s charts and graphs over the screen now. 

So when we’re in the lift together it’s awkward but maybe not so awful, because Phobos doesn’t ask if I’m okay again. Now that it’s morning I’m a bit better about telling my lies, a little more willing to be tough. I end up walking to get breakfast with Phobos, when normally on nights like this it’d be Praxis and Deimos splitting off to walk together, two nice dark shadows who belong together. 

I don’t think either of us really means to do it. Phobos looks kind of lost in thought anyway, his gaze distant as he keeps sighing as if he’s sad, but it’s just a silly book that’s got him looking that way. Neither of us really means to end up sitting at the same table, but we do. I think we’re just mirroring each other, two white shadows who sit on the same side of the bench and sigh over their breakfasts. 

Phobos looks over at me like this is my fault, like he’s not just as guilty for sitting next to me as I am for sitting next to him. I remember that he always sat next to Porthos at meals -- at briefings, walking in the halls. They were always together, and now they’re not and that’s my fault as well. 

“You must hate your new fighter, huh?”

He startles me with the question, because he actually sounds a little sympathetic even though he’s just scared of spiders and ghosts and not shadows. I don’t really know what to say, so I’m scared for a moment that my face shows too much -- that I’m not quick enough with my soft stammering lie of just, “What? No, um --”

“I bet he’s a scumbag,” Phobos says. “All the fighters are like that. They’re a wild pack of dogs, totally rabid. You have to get control over him, like I have over Deimos.”

I stare over at him, because Deimos could cut Phobos’ pretty face to ribbons without breaking a sweat. He’s just so incredibly lucky that Deimos is nice, and it makes me angry suddenly. It can’t be my little voice that says it, but I’m the only one sitting there so it has to be me. 

“You’re such a catty bitch, Phobos.”

His eyes widen, those pretty blue-green eyes of his widen and the weirdest thing about it is that he looks almost impressed, like he lit a fuse to a big, pretty firework and now he’s in awe of the booming flash. I wonder if my eyes are flashing, so I look tough. 

“Well,” he snips. He sniffs, flicks his nose up in the air as he turns his head and fumes. “If you’re going to be that way about it.”

And maybe I am, maybe I am going to be that way about it. Just because I’m a Pathos again doesn’t mean I have to be the same Pathos I was before, that I have to be some scared fresh-scrubbed recruit named Aidan or even a top-ranked navigator wanting to be nothing. I can be like that way for Phobos, whatever way that is, where my eyes flash so I look tough. 

He can’t just say quiet though, I don’t know why he can’t just stay quiet. He always has to get the last word in, never can let things go. “I was only trying to help, you know. Whatever it is that’s got you so worked up like this, it has to be your fighter. Porthos always said Athos was a prat.”

I wonder about that, wonder what that could possibly mean, because I still have no idea my fighter thinks I’m cute or is just cruel, if he just wants whatever soft and cream-colored thing they put into the room with him. I remember Deimos shrieking, so raspy and weak, about the way he fought for me and the way my lies hurt him, the way he is so tough and deadly -- he killed for me, I never asked him to do it, he’s killed something precious about himself that he’d only just gotten back.

By the way Phobos is staring at me I know I probably don’t look okay. I make an effort to smile before I remember what I just said, that I’m supposed to be mad at Phobos because he’s so fucking stupid. 

No, that isn’t nice -- that’s really mean. Phobos is smart, he’s pretty and sharp-tongued but I think maybe he wants to be nice, maybe he might not be so mean if he didn’t have to be so tough. His eyes are pretty and bright, he’s got a nice smirking smile, I know he likes to laugh and tease in a way that’s sweet when he’s being nice -- when he thinks he’s alone, or just with Porthos whom he liked. I caught them once, when they thought they were alone, I’m not sure they heard me because I ran away so quick. It was just after the transfer, when I became Ethos, and I didn’t want to have them hate me -- though I guess they did anyway. 

Phobos stares at me. “Is he really that awful?” he asks. 

I’m honest enough to shrug. “I liked Praxis better,” I say -- which is the truth, it’s the absolute truth.

I’d give anything for it to be like it was. I can’t believe I miss anything about the Sleipnir, where I’d spent all that time as Pathos and even more time as nothing, but also I was Ethos and met a nice fighter named Deimos, brought him into my room to hide and realized he already knew my fighter, that nice man named Marcus. 

“Really?” Phobos looks incredulous. “He always seemed so stuffy.” His eyes cut sideways and then he leans toward me some. “Oh, my gosh, look at the hickey on Abel’s neck! He's such a simpering slut,” he hisses. Eyes bright, playful, he’s whispering this catty gossip at me like I’m Porthos sitting next to him at meetings, meals, and briefings. 

I think it’s a little mean of me, but I glance over to where Abel is walking down the aisle of tables with a tray in hand. He sits next to Luna and when he turns his head to say hello to Keeler at the far end of their table, I see the bright red mark that Phobos spotted. 

“I cannot believe he’s letting Cain fuck him. Ugh, can you imagine? A wild dog like that?” Phobos shakes his head like he expects me to agree with him, and maybe I do because I think Cain is kind of awful, a little bit horrible. He’s not all that nice to Deimos, although then when Deimos was hurt so bad -- when he nearly got killed, trying to kill a man for me -- when Deimos was hurt in medical, Cain always came to sit with him. 

It was hard to get Deimos alone so we could whisper, so we could get our lies straight. I’m such a good liar but I was so scared, it was a big lie to tell. They asked me a lot of questions about the body they found, all those ruined pieces of my fighter, my Logos. I absolutely must never think about what happen down in the maintenance tunnels of the Sleipnir. I never want to think about a knife in my hand, skin parting under the blade, the shocked look in dark eyes as I slit a man’s throat, killed a man I thought I loved a long time ago -- a different Pathos, but it was still me and it happened. I might not want to think about it, but that doesn’t make any less real. Just distant, deliciously distant, like all that nothing that I wanted.  

Phobos has a hand on my back, he’s leaned in close. I realize he’s whispering, this thin vicious whisper. “Put your head between your knees. Do it, quick. God, you’re so fucking pale.”

I was thinking too much about all things I told myself I’d never, ever think about. I let Phobos push my head under the table, between my knees. The sick-dizzy spin gets less and the tunnel-vision black fades out slow. 

“I thought medical cleared you,” he says. “Or aren’t you still on rest orders? Serves you right for showing off like that.” He huffs and sound so catty and mean that I kind of think it’s sweet, because I bet he’s jealous, he’s so vain and insecure because he’s never been top-ranked. 

I push his hand away and sit upright again with my head more clear and everything less strange, less awful and fading. I’m a little embarrassed but glad I have the excuse of my head -- I forgot about the big bump and split skin, the two winged bandages holding it together now that it’s scarred over. 

“Sorry,” I say. “Um, I just I did get a little dizzy just then.” And then I smile, because it was kind of nice of him to do something about me looking pale, looking like I might faint. I bet if I’d gone down he would have taken me to medical, or maybe he would have just squealed like he saw a spider and flapped his hands about it. I have no idea what he would have done, but I know for sure he wouldn’t have carried me into a bed and kissed me. I don’t even think he could pick me up -- he’s small and lean, delicate with pretty, slim fingers and a small snooty nose. 

So I say, “Thanks, Phobos,” and mean it just the same as I mean the smile I give him, it isn’t a lie.

“Hpmh.” Phobos looks away and glares down his nose at his tray. There’s pink over his cheeks like a dusting of flour. 

“Um, do you think you could maybe send me a copy of that book you were reading?” I ask. “It looked really good.”

Now it’s red across his face, molten heat spreading up from his neck. “Fuck off. You looked so creepy just staring at me like that. It scared me half the death.” He picks up his tray and glares down the thin little line of his nose at me, so pretty and mean with a cold closed expression -- but there’s heat across his face, and his eyes are such a bright blue-green. 

It’s later that day, after the briefing, that he walks up and snatches my tablet out my hand. He glares at me while he does the transfer and tells me I can’t start at the end, I need to read the whole thing, so it’s a trilogy he turns over with such a red-faced mean look. I stammer at him okay, thank him for it so he gets snippy -- _ If you’re going to be up half the night, you might as well have something to do that isn’t staring at me. _

Medical told me to rest, so I don’t have to go to the ship or run any sims. I don’t have to see my fighter, because I don’t go to the room. I just have to stay in the places fighters can’t go, and I need to start learning my way to all those places without being seen. I was good on the Sleipnir. I was the best, top-ranked, but I also was such a good little liar, such a good little sneak. I learned all the places to be that my fighter was not. It’s how I knew about the maintenance tunnels, I knew where we could go to set a trap. 

I’ve been told to rest, so I sit around in the bright rooms full of cream-colored splotches, all these milk-pale bodies in uniform. When Keeler comes to talk to me I pretend to be studying the flight data from the Pharaon’s last run, but soon as he leaves I flip back over to the book Phobos sent me. I don’t want to think about the ship, I don’t want to see the stats that tell me how good my fighter and I worked together. Maybe if I do poor again, maybe if I get our ranking to drop, they’ll reassign me so I won’t have to be a Pathos anymore. 

I’d be anyone else -- a Selene, a Luna, an Abel. Maybe not Abel. I’m not sure I’d like having Cain as my fighter, because poor Abel has that scar on his pretty mouth, but Abel always looks so happy, so flushed and sweet when he talks about Cain. He really likes his fighter, but I thought I loved my fighter once so I go get Abel alone. 

I have no idea why, or maybe I do. I can tell it’s not so normal, maybe kind of strange, the way that I wander up to Abel and pretend I have a question about the charts and graphs just so I have an excuse to talk to him. But I’m too nervous to ask, I don’t even know how I would ask. I just get up close to him and try not to stare at the red mark on his neck. I look for his lies, I see if his hands tremble. I get up close and let my knee touch his, but I’m cream-colored and small so maybe it won’t work, maybe he’s a good liar too.

We’re still talking about nothing in particular when it’s time for dinner, and when we have our trays and go to find seats I see Phobos sitting by himself. He’s so catty and mean to everyone, it’s no surprise that no one wants to sit with him. Porthos always sat with him, they always sat together -- they were inseparable but Phobos says that command marked it as a requested transfer, and I didn’t ask. I’m sure Praxis didn’t, and they don’t listen to fighters.  

“Let’s sit there,” I say to Abel. I nod my head to where Phobos is sitting alone, and Abel looks at me like I’m crazy. We sit instead at an empty table, because Abel thinks I need help figuring out that the Pharaon’s secondary thrusters need recalibrated before I take her back out again, when I’ve already got the calibration ready and just can’t go to the ship to use it. But I pretend that I don’t know, that I need his help, because I wanted an excuse to see if he flinches when Cain walks past. 

Whenever I glance over my shoulder, Phobos is still sitting there by himself. He’s got his eyes down at his lap, so I feel really sorry for him until he stands up to put his tray away and I see he’s got his eyes on the tablet screen. 

After dinner, Abel wishes me good luck with the Pharaon and leaves for his room where he must not be afraid to be alone with his fighter, because he smiles and looks so pretty and soft-eyed sweet whenever Cain’s around. I make sure to take the long way through the station to reach Phobos’ and Deimos’ room for the night, because there’s no way I can go to my room when I know my fighter is there waiting. There’s just no way I can go be alone in the room with Logos, even just his memory. 

I buzz at the door and realize my mistake when it stays closed. I should have waited for Deimos or asked Phobos to walk with me. I’m locked out of the room because no one’s within it, the two of them aren’t here yet. I have no way to get into the room so I just have to stand in the hall. I’m so exposed standing out here in the hall, anyone could walk past and see me standing there waiting. 

I’m about ready to bolt and find somewhere bright, somewhere only navigators can go, a room full of glowing screens and harmless numbers, all that data that I can pretend to stare at when Keeler asks what I’m doing, why I’m still awake. I’m nearly ready to run when Phobos comes wandering along the hallway with his nose lowered down at his tablet screen. 

He glances up and sees me, so it’s a snippy little frown he gives me as he presses open the door. “I liked it better when Deimos would stay over in your room,” he says, all snotty and mean. “If you’re going to do sleepovers like this. But I guess as long as you’re quiet. And no creepy staring!”

Phobos waves me inside like it’s the nicest thing in the world, and maybe it is because when I say --  _ I started reading that book  _ \-- he looks interested and tries to lie. He’s such a bad liar, I know it at once. Pink goes into his cheeks as he acts like he doesn’t care, even though he asks me how I like it, and smiles when I say it’s good. 

We’re both in bed reading when Deimos comes into the room. I’m in Deimos’ bed and Phobos is across the room, our tablets out, two white shadows in the room with him. Deimos stops for a moment, there’s a hesitation in the way he looks between us and takes in the calm of the moment. Phobos doesn’t even look up from the glow -- he ignores Deimos, who walks over to me. He smells like smoke and sweat, fighter smells, he must have been down in the base and maybe with Cain, I hope he was with Cain and not my fighter again. 

“Okay?” he asks me quietly. 

I nod and scoot closer to the wall. “Oh. Um, but if it’s okay with you, I was going to sleep here again?” Because I didn’t ask him if I could stay in the room, Phobos and I both just assumed I had an invitation to be in Deimos’ bed, and now I’m in his bed so it seems strange to ask.  

Deimos nods and turns for the shower. I hear the water run for a bit and then he comes out scrubbed clean, his dark hair glossy and wet. He gets the light without asking, because he’s coming in so late. He looks tired as he sits and rubs at his face. It’s a bit awkward for him with just his left hand free, the other all wrapped up and useless, though the swelling’s gone down in his slim little fingers. 

He settles down into the bed with me, so our toes brush and knees touch, our hips close together as we shift to get comfortable. He rolls to his side and gets right up against the edge to give me all the space that he can between his back and the wall. His arm is out stiff, and I think it can’t be comfortable. He probably would rather be on his back to ease the strain on his arm, or sleep facing me to get his hurt arm on top rather than keep it pinned under him and stiff. 

I watch Deimos sideways in the glow of the screen before rolling to my side to face the wall like he expects, although I’d rather trade him sides so I could watch Phobos read. Then again I promised no creepy staring, but I think if I had the tablet as an excuse I could stare over the screen and watch him read. I put my eyes back to the book and find my place, so there’s the quiet in the room of two white shadows at peace. 

  
  



	14. Chapter 14

_Inside the sim we’re silent to the world, we can say anything we want inside of the sim, we’re alone only ever in the sim, in the ship, in the room but I try not to be there. I have to be in the sim, I have to go to the ship, I’m still a navigator though I wish I was nothing._

_“Take the shot,” I say. It’s such a flat tone. I have to say the words, I have to fly the ship, it’s only a sim but I’m doing my best. I have to be the best, top-ranked, I’ll get hurt worse if I don’t and I’m tired of hurt. I just want to be nothing, but I have to be the best._

_“You know, cutie, it’s rude to ignore someone.” My fighter sounds amused, but his voice is all snarl. He’s angry with me because I sleep somewhere else. I found somewhere he couldn’t go and stayed there, pretended to work, I won’t go to the room but I have to be here._

_Those red little targets flicker, because my fighter’s so good. We get to have a fight between us even as we fight. We’d never be like this up in the ship, but here in the sim we’re silent to the world. It’s just us, just our voices, this glow of the screen and those little red targets that flicker._

_“It’s rude to hurt someone, but that doesn’t stop you. One more pass.” I bank us hard to the right, it’s not smooth at all. I don’t care anymore about making this pretty, I don’t care anymore if we crash. I just want this to be over, but he’s my fighter -- the best, we’re top-ranked._

_My fighter growls, he doesn’t like when I talk back. Here in the sim we can say what we want, and if he tries to beat me I just have to scream and open the hatch. It’s a room full of people, it’s out in the open, we’re not alone in this room just alone in the sim, and I’m one button away from a room full of people._

_“You better be in the room tonight,” he says._

_“Or what, you’ll hurt me? Take the shot.” I snap the words at him, not happy at all, I hate worse that he makes it -- a red target flickers and fades. We zoom around in a loop and it’s a hard figure-eight, twisting and turning with the thrusters screaming. I’ll get us both killed, I don’t care, our numbers keep climbing the more reckless I get._

_“You have no idea how bad I can hurt you, cutie.”_

_He’s trying to sound wild, so dangerous and lean, but I know him better know -- I know him best. I know this dark fighter can’t hurt me anymore than he has. All those shattered pieces of my heart, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t have a heart to break, he’s a sick son of a bitch, I’d get us both killed if I wasn’t so mad. I don’t want him to die a hero, blown up with the ship, so I won’t do it on purpose but I don’t care if I do, so I fly more reckless than ever and the numbers go up, up, up._

_So long as we’re top-ranked, they won’t split us apart. I went crying to command already, begged them and pleaded, I was too scared and embarrassed to talk about what happens in the room so I just said he was cruel, that I was scared, I said I’d heard rumors from others but no one will back me. He’s got that new navigator scared stupid like he got me the same, and I don’t know who else he’s hurt. I only ever caught him the once, because now I’m either not in the room or he takes them elsewhere. I don’t care, I don’t care, I just want to be nothing._

_“You need me. I’m the best.” In the sim we go flying, swooping and soft alarms whining. In the ship it’d be shrieking, hot-blooded rattle and black tunnel-vision, but here in the sim it’s gentle and fake. There’s numbers and data, but I barely look. I know what I’m doing, I’ve done this before, my hands glide over the glow in a beautiful caress. I know what I’m doing._

_“I’m the best,” my fighter snarls._

_“Because of me. Take the shot.” Those little red targets flicker and fade, so I jerk out of my seat and turn off the sim. That was it, we won, I slam my hand on the button to get out of the hatch and into a room full of people._

_My fighter grabs my arm so I can’t leave, he keeps me in place with a hard look and firm grip. “Pathos, stop this. Stop being so unreasonable.”_

_He isn’t done, he can still whisper. So long as he’s not loud and doesn’t squeeze bruises into my arm, I won’t scream. I did it the once, I opened the hatch to start screaming, when he tried to come over the seat divider with a dark look in his eye. We said it was a fight, we both lied, command won’t believe me because he’s too clever for that. He won’t hurt me enough so it shows, he knows how to make deep ache that won’t show._

_I’m staring, I’m staring, I can’t believe how much I’m staring as he says to stop. There’s nothing, such nothing, just my perfect blank face. Air fills my lungs so my chest goes up, and then air goes over my lips so my chest goes down. My broken heart beats just like it should. I broke it, he broke it, all those shattered pieces still beat. I’m something, sadly, still a milk-pale body, but I can be nothing and want it so bad._

_My fighter is telling me to stop, and I don’t think it’s a lie. I’d maybe find it funny and try to laugh if I was something besides a milk-pale white body, all my sweet-spoken lies._

_“Let me go,” I say. My voice is so quiet. I don’t look at him, because I know he’ll have started to smile. That boyish sweet grin I don’t want to see, I can’t let him do this and I won’t, I won’t go to the room. I’ll be somewhere else, anywhere else, I don’t have to sleep in that room because it doesn’t matter. Command doesn’t care what happens in the rooms. They just care about numbers, how we are in the ship._

_I could do worse in the rankings, but then I’d be useless. He can’t bruise me too deep, can’t hurt me where it shows. Command talked to him, gave him a warning, after the day I started screaming in this room full of people. He forgot to be careful, he was so angry, it was the day I stopped lying and said what I meant -- I can say what I want in the silence of the sim, no one can hear me and he knows I’ll start screaming. They gave him a warning and three days in the brig, because he slapped me when I started screaming. Right in front of Encke, who wasn’t amused, and I’ve thought of going to tell him the whole stupid truth. I’m too embarrassed and scared, and I see the way his hands linger on Keeler when he thinks we can’t see._

_So because I’m the best, because I’m top-ranked, my fighter can’t break me anymore than he has. I’m trapped with him like he’s trapped with me, because we’re the best, we’re such a good team._

_He lets me go like I say, and I climb out of the sim. I look at the readout and see all those numbers and data. This fighter of mine, all wild and lean, he stands there sulking like a pitch-black shadow in a shiny flightsuit. My handsome dark fighter with such a sweet boyish grin._

_“Pathos,” he says. “Let’s go to the room.”_

_He must think I’m stupid or maybe afraid. He thinks he can bully me, but I’m done with his threats. I don’t care anymore, I just want to be nothing, so I brush past his shoulder and walk away. That’s how it is and that’s how it will be, I just have to be careful and never end up alone. I always have to be somewhere that’s bright, full of people, I can’t be alone unless it’s in a place he can’t go, somewhere that’s just for milk-pale white bodies._

_I thought I was so clever, I thought I was the best, I thought my plan would always work even though it hurts. I’m tired of hiding, tired of lying, I want to be nothing so badly hurts. I can’t go to the room, I can’t get him alone, so it’s always being somewhere that he can’t go -- and I thought I was so clever._

_I’m hiding with the numbers and data, I’m hiding in a room with glowing screens. There’s charts and tables, star maps and engine schematics, I’m working on a configuration to go twice as fast through the loops because I don’t care about being reckless, I don’t care if it hurts. All that black rattling, the tunnel-vision, it lets me be nothing except caressing a glow, I’m just a navigator flying the ship -- I can be nothing, if I go twice as fast, and maybe I’ll crash even though it’ll make him a hero._

_I think I’m so clever until the door slides open. He’s got a milk-pale white body held by the arm, he’s made this poor shivering and scared navigator open the door. This one isn’t me, but it could be me, my white shadow twin with sleek straight hair, sleek straight nose. We’re nothing alike except small and pale, cream-colored in uniform and painfully meek. I stopped being afraid because I don’t care if it hurts, so I become nothing even though I’ve been caught._

_It’s reckless to do it here, he has to know it’s not safe. Anyone could walk in, anyone could find us, and I could start screaming except the door slides closed. He’s alone with two white shadows, but only one of us is scared. I’m nothing, such nothing, until he put me over the panels. There’s all that glow in my face, the configurations and charts, and it makes me so angry -- I don’t want to be nothing. I want to be a navigator, I just want to fly. This isn’t fair, and I hate it._

_We fight, I fight him, he’s my fighter but I don’t care. I claw at his face and beat fists into his chest, I yell and I yell how much I hate him. He slaps me stupid, slaps me hard, there’s blood in my mouth from a busted lip so I can go tell command we were fighting. They’ll give him a warning, a few days in the brig, I’ll sleep in a bed so it’s like a reward._

_It gets me to laughing, so I tell him what’s funny. I tell him I hate him, I’ll hate him forever, I wish he was dead. My little white shadow, the one who’s not me, he whimpers and hides because he used to be me. But I’m angry, so angry, I’m tired of hiding. If he wants me I’ll fight him, I’ll make him kill me or try. I tell him I’ll kill him, and he slaps me so hard. I fight and I fight this fighter of mine, I kick and I scream, I claw and I hit, he holds me down easy and gives me deep ache._

_It’s three weeks in the brig, more than a warning, he beat me too much because I wanted to fight. I’m not going to be easy, I’m not going to lie. I tell command everything but everyone knows we’re the best, they know we were good and saw all my lies. I’m such a good liar, so my truths seem like lies, and we’re still together, this fighter and I._


	15. Chapter 15

Phobos walks with me to breakfast again, and this time when we both end up on the same side of the bench he doesn’t give me a glare for it. He just chews at his food with these delicate small bites, humming a bit when he finds something he likes about it. He sips at his coffee, which gets him to hum, and the bacon’s gone crispy so that gets a hum as well. He gets to be in a good mood, because he’s just scared of spiders and ghosts and the station has neither.

I’m scared of a shadow, a dark memory made flesh, my fighter will be waiting because I have to go to the ship or the sim room, I have to find him so we can practice. Medical just said three days of rest and I used them all up. I don’t have any excuses not to work with my fighter.

“You know, I could push you down some stairs,” Phobos offers.

We’re about finished eating, or rather he is. I just moved my food around my plate without tasting it. Phobos looks over at me and sips at his coffee again with a soft slurping sound, he sips at it so delicate and neat except for that sound. His slim little fingers are curled around the cup, and there’s a cute, teasing smile on his face when he lowers the rim. He smiles at me like I’m Porthos, who he always sat next to at meals, so maybe I’m memory for him like my fighter is for me.

“I’m serious. You wouldn’t even need to get all that hurt. I’ll say it was an accident but look really huffy about it so they’ll want to believe you when you say it wasn’t my fault. Command always believes anything if they think it means we’ve all been fighting like cats in heat. So I can push you, then you can tell medical you need another day of rest. Not a bad plan, right?” He laughs, it’s such a soft, pretty sound -- like fine china clinking, he’d fit so well into the parlor with my mother and aunts, nothing at all like a dark spot of soot.

He says he’s serious but he laughs, and he looks so teasing but it’s not mean. I don’t know why he’s being nice like this, but I’m pretty sure his plan isn’t serious. I think he’s just teasing me, but he isn’t being mean.

It pulls a smile from me, even though I feel too sick and scared to lie. I don’t think the smile on my face is a lie. “Do you want to walk to the hanger with me? I have a calibration I want to load into the Pharaon.”

Phobos shrugs and gets up from the bench. “Deimos is useless. We’re on weeks of rest orders because of him, so I’m bored out of my skull staring at Keeler’s stupid reports.”

I don’t know if that means he’s agreeing with me or just wants to hear the sound of his own whiny voice, but it’s such a soft, pretty voice with lots of sweet simpering so I guess I understand why he likes listening to it. We leave the mess hall together and walk toward our ships.

“The worst part is Abel’s fancy flying to clip those Colterons off my tail. I could have lost them, you know, it’s only because he showed up trying to play the hero that we got hit at all. I didn’t expect them to wheel around like that.” Phobos sniffs, so catty and mean, because he really doesn’t like Abel. I don’t know why everyone hates Abel so much when Abel is so nice, so pretty and kind, he’s always so nice to me and willing to help.

There’s no way Phobos hates Abel because he likes Cain, but I guess he’s jealous just the same as Deimos but for different reasons. Abel’s good, he’s the best, he and Cain are always near the top of the rankings. I hope it’s good for them, really good, I hope that I’m wrong about Cain being horrible.

It’s Abel and Cain that we run into in the hanger, or rather it’s Cain who walks right up to us with Abel trailing after him. “Envy,” he says. “Envy, I got a question for you.”

Phobos makes a face like he’s smelled something awful and sniffs about it, haughty and cold with a glare going down the line of his nose. He’d be spitting and hissing with big arching fur if he were a cat, and I try not to smile. I bite down on my lip.

“It’s Pathos,” Abel whispers. He’s trying to be nice, plucking at Cain’s elbow and whispering soft.  “His name is Pathos.”

“Whatever,” says Cain. He’s angry, scowling at us and me the worse because I have no idea why he walked all the way over here to ask me something if he doesn’t even know who I am. “It’s about your ship, let’s go.”

He takes my arm, and it’s Phobos who gets in between us. “Hey,” he snaps, that prissy voice sneering. “Fuck off. We’re busy.”

“Phobos, he just wants to ask a question,” Abel says quietly. He looks so affronted that anyone would find Cain intimidating, that I have any reason at all to have gone so still and quiet as Cain takes my arm. “And since when are you nice to Ethos?”

For all that he was correcting Cain on my name, he forgets and uses the wrong one, too. It’s okay, since I don’t even know who I am half the time anymore, if I have to be a Pathos who hides or maybe an Ethos who’s sweet, and I don’t even know anymore about the fresh-scrubbed recruit named Aidan, but I think he became nothing in the depths of the Sleipnir.

Cain doesn’t have time to listen to bickering navigators. He drags me away without bothering to let Abel and Phobos resolve their bitchy fighting. I have no idea why everyone is so mean about Abel when he is so nice, except I guess Phobos and Deimos are both jealous but for different reasons. I should explain that to them, so they’ll have something in common, something besides being so delicate and pretty, so very nice once you know them.

“Which is your fucking ship,” Cain grumbles. It’s not the kind of question he actually wants answered, nor does he probably want me to hear, so I really don’t have any idea why he’s pretending to have a question for me about a ship he can’t even recognize.

A dark shadow in uniform steps out from under the ship. My fighter waiting, or maybe just working, I don’t know why but he’s standing there. It’s a black on black memory, so it’s a good thing Cain has my arm, he’s still dragging me over because I guess he knows my fighter even if he doesn’t know my ship.

As we get closer my heart stops beating so hard, so fast, I can manage this without shaking because it’s not him standing under the ship. This fighter, my fighter, it isn’t the same, but I feel so confused, so scared, and I’m just glad we’re not alone.

Cain lets me go just as we get within range. He says loudly, “That auxiliary core you blew, let me see it, Logos. Your navigator’s useless for explaining it.”

“Oh, well, it’s already repaired,” my fighter says. He smiles that wide-smirking smile, that sly wide-mouth above his narrow chin.

“Let me see anyway,” says Cain. He steps close to my fighter and they go duck under the ship together.

They leave me standing there, and when I turn I see Abel trailing after us but Phobos is gone. I feel a flutter of disappointment, because I thought maybe if Phobos had nothing to do, nowhere to be, I thought maybe I could get him to stay close to me. He can come with me to the places fighters can’t go, and with Deimos injured they can’t run any sims or do any work.

Abel’s gotten nearer to us now with pretty dark brows flexing. His hair is so blond, so pale, this pretty gold perfect, but his brows are dark above tough flashing eyes. He smiles at me some, almost a grimace, like he’s sorry that Cain’s over here distracting my fighter so he won’t go after me.

I doubt Abel’s sorry for running Phobos off, even if I can’t help but feel a little disappointed. Phobos might not understand like Deimos, but he did see me be honest and cry without any of my lies, so he at least understands more than Abel, who would want to help but can’t. He loves Cain, it has to be good, because he ducks under the ship and sounds almost scolding as he collects Cain.

“Relax, princess,” Cain huffs. “I’ll run the damn sim with you. Logos, grab your navigator. All the soft white things are dripping wet to see you two try replicating that run.”

I look to Abel, because he’s looking at me, and ask -- “What?”

“Keeler,” says Abel. “He’s got the sim loaded based off the last fight. Ethos, no one knows how it is you two got out of that mess. You have to show us, now that your head’s better.” He’s smiling, like I did something remarkable when I barely even remember what it is that I did at all. Something impressive, I guess,  and I wish I’d let Phobos push me down the stairs.

My fighter smirks over at me. “Let’s go, then,” he says.

We end walking together, Cain keeping pace with my fighter and asking him about odds on something -- brawls among the fighters, I guess, because of the way Abel presses his mouth and pretends like he doesn’t hear. He asks me a bunch of questions about the sim we’re about to go run for everyone, and I do mean everyone.

I’d forgotten about Keeler, about him asking me about the dogfight around the Voltaire, about promising to run the sim since I couldn’t explain it. I just wanted Keeler to stop talking to me. I didn’t actually want to run this sim for everyone, but I do mean everyone. Every blond head I know it seems is crowded in the room -- I even see Phobos wedged into the corner and arguing with Deimos about something.

“Pathos!” Keeler comes forward and claims me. “How’s your head? Are you ready?”

Over Keeler’s shoulder I see Phobos, who catches my eye and smiles slyly. He glances at Deimos and makes it a question, but I’m not sure what he’s offering or suggesting. I see his little hand mime a stabbing gesture until Deimos catches him at it and frowns, looks so tough and deadly that Phobos flushes pink and disappears into the crowd.  

“Pathos?” Keeler asks. I realize I’m just standing there giggling at Phobos being silly and hastily straighten my expression.

“Um, um, yes,” I say quickly. “I’m ready. Where’s …?”

My fighter squeezes up next to me and sets a skin-crawling casual hand between my shoulders. He pushes me toward the open hatch and I get onto my side of the seat divider. I’m nervous only until the hatch closes and we’re locked in the sim, when it’s just the glow of the panel in front of me and a voice at my back.

“Well, I wish we’d had time to practice this before showing off,” my fighter says.

Inside of the sim we’re silent to the world, we can say whatever we want inside of the sim. My breath catches and memory shivers like a violent ache inside me. My hands tremble. I don’t think I can do this. I should have let Phobos push me down the stairs.

I breath deep and let the air out slow. I smooth my fingers around the nav panel and set the glow stronger, pull up the numbers and data to check and sort before we get started. I keep thinking my fighter is going to ask me about being out of the room two nights in a row, I keep thinking he’s going to snarl _Pathos_ and tell me to stop being unreasonable, to come back into the room.

I’m seeing memory, black and black, split-second flashes where I’m nothing, not here, that glow beneath my hands the only real thing. I tap into my work files and go digging, discard calibrations and find the one I want. I get it loaded into the sim easily enough, since this is all fake and safe.

“Logos, are you ready?”

“Ready,” he affirms. All brisk and business, no snarl to it, and I feel a lot calmer starting up.

I’m thinking this is going to be easy, because of that shadowed blip where I couldn’t see the other two Colteron ships hiding up against the broad bulk of the Voltaire, but I should know better than to think Keeler would put together a literal duplicate for me to trick my way out of. It can’t be that easy, even though there’s a lumbering fat battleship drifting across the storm of red targets.

“Pathos, the scouts,” my fighter warns.

“I see them. Get ready.” I flick my hands and tap quickly to redirect our shields and push this mock-up of our Pharaon into fast-flying sweeps. There’s Keeler’s trick, the fast reaction time he wants out of me, because he doesn’t need to rely on sensor shadows when this is all fake in the first place. Three extra targets get us lined up into their crosshairs, and I hear my fighter cursing.

They’re fast, but I’m faster. I was expecting this, so maybe it isn’t a little like cheating. It’s fast-flying and a tight, dangerous loop, that fancy figure-eight I made when I didn’t care what happened. It’s soft sirens and whispering instead of rattling black we streak sideways -- “Logos!”

“Got it, I got it,” he says. “Fuck!”

I weave us through the ambush and feel disappointed there’s no tunnel-vision, no black rattling, it’s just gentle warnings and low-flashing numbers, the fake Pharaon whining when it should be a scream. This wasn’t much of a challenge, if I think about all the times I didn’t care if we lived or died, when I was so angry but I couldn’t let Logos die a hero, couldn’t blow up the Nereid since I loved her dearly -- I didn’t want to crash, because I wanted to be the best.

I don’t want to be the best anymore, I’m scared to be top-ranked, because they’ll never split up a top-ranked pair. I should have tried with Praxis, I should have been a better Ethos.

A long sigh escapes as I swing us around through the stages of the sim. All those red targets, I dive us close and sweep us clear of the danger. I let us take an indirect hit to spare us from the direct one, and it’s all kinds of red and whining from the battered fake ship.

“Pathos, watch out!”

“I see them.” I sound bored, and maybe I am. It was too many sims with Logos, too much wanting to be nothing, it’s all I can think about when I don’t want to think about it at all. I could say whatever I wanted in the sim, because it was just one button press away from being all those people who wouldn’t let him hurt me. So long it was messy and obvious they cared, but whenever it was darkness and fear in the room, I was just being dramatic -- I was being silly. A soft, silly, sensitive navigator, one half of a top-ranked pair, letting my fighter fuck me because that’s just the way it is sometimes, that’s how the best teams get to stay the best, or maybe command just doesn’t care at all so long we’re top-ranked.

All those red targets, I’m going to take them down, the sim will be over if I get us blown up or I take down the targets. The sim can’t make it black and rattling, but it’s tunnel-vision anyway. Just the glow beneath my hands, the glow that fills me so it’s all that I see. Too many memories, because it’s my voice that says so flat and bored, “Logos, take the shot.”

Logos, my Logos, that fighter of mine I loved and hated and killed. I don’t want to be in this sim, so I need it to end. I use the fast-flying fancy figure-eight again, and if this were real I’d have broken the ship and put us dead in the water for it, but my bored little voice says, “take the shot,” and then it’s done.

I punch the button to lift the hatch. There’s voices, buzzing, everyone sounding so impressed. My fighter pops over the seat divider with a look of surprise, because I’m already half-gone. I jump to the floor and it’s all these voices, everyone sounding impressed and wanting to see the calibration I loaded, but I need to get away.

I can’t be here, I can’t do this, I don’t want to be Pathos again. I don’t want to be top-ranked anymore, I just want to be nothing. Pathos didn’t care if he crashed, didn’t care if the ship broke in the middle of the fight, he just didn’t want his fighter to go down as a hero, so he decided to be nothing and I want to be nothing again so bad it hurts.

A hand finds mine, a simpering breathy voice talks back to even Keeler saying -- _He already promised to help me get the Equinox unfucked, so you’ll just have to wait your turn or fuck off forever. Or better yet figure it out for yourself and stop trying to steal his hard work._

And then I’m being dragged away, straight out of the room, Phobos is bullying everyone with such a mean little voice to clear a path to the door. He bullies me out into the hall with a tight-clasp hand, so it’s tunnel-vision even though he’s just milk-pale and not glowing, a singular focus so I keep moving forward, so I can be nothing.


	16. Chapter 16

_I’m going to be nothing, soon as I get the courage to stand up. I don’t think I’m afraid, I didn’t think I was afraid, but when I looked over the rail and really thought about this my knees buckled, so now I’m not sure I can stand. I just need to sit here for a minute, I think, and then I won’t be afraid._

_I do want to be nothing, or I do want to this stop -- I want it to stop so much it hurts, because I’m sick of being the kind of nothing where I’m still around, trapped in a milk-pale white body, a shivering cream shadow under my lean, dark fighter. I can’t get out any other way, I’m still trapped in this body, so I’ll become nothing and it will stop._

_I hug my knees closer and think about the bottle of brandy I left in my room, the one I’ve got hidden back behind all my clothes, the one my mother sent all this way in a care package when she got word I was number one, top-ranked. It took so long for word to reach her, and so long for the package to arrive, because I’m sure command likes to look over everything and sensor out anything that might remind us that we’re not just task names and numbers, fast-flying configurations shooting little red targets._

_I might puke. I only drank a little of the brandy, but I should have taken the whole bottle. My mother said to save it for a celebration, told me not to drink it all at once, I can’t believe she sent me liquor but that’s how I know she’s proud._

_I press my face into my knees and think I really might throw up, even though I only drank a little of the brandy. I don’t know why I left it with my things, why I hid it within my clothes in the back of the drawer. I should have drank the whole thing, because now I’m too scared to stand up again and look over the rail._

_I breathe slow, breathe deep. I let go of my knees and get to my feet. The first shaking step is the worst, and then my fingers close around the slim metal railing. I lean forward and stare down at the churning, roiling, heated guts of machinery. It’s the cold metal heart of the Sleipnir churning down below, over this rail and beneath the grated walkway._

_Getting over the rail is going to be the worse part, or maybe the fall will be the worse part. Landing might be bad, it might hurt, but I hope it’s quick and after that’s the best part. I’ll get caught in the grinding hot gears, the sick-spinning parts. This milk-pale body of mine will get ripped to pieces and release me at last, so I can become nothing, true nothing, and make all this stop._

_My hands grip the rail, clammy and cold, but it’s hot here in this place, there’s all this dark heat. I breathe slow and feel calm the longer I stare down at the nothing I’ll soon become. I’m not scared anymore. I told myself I wouldn’t be scared, I wouldn’t let him scare me any longer._

_It got too hard to hide, to hard to find anywhere I can be that he isn’t, so I stopped trying. I go to the room at night and become nothing, such nothing trapped in this milk-pale white body. I try to get there before he does, I arrive early and crawl into the top bunk. I try to be small, I try to hide up there, because sometimes he comes back drunk and late and doesn’t see me, or sometimes I can kick and fight so he can’t drag me down from my top bunk._

_Sometimes he forgets I’m up there, he brings that other navigator who isn’t me, that other white shadow. I hear a voice saying to stop, and I burrow under my pillow, I curl so tight, but it doesn’t stop me from hearing, I’m trapped in my body despite all the nothing I try to be._

_I look down below, far down below, where the it’s treacherous and pounding, hot heat of the Sleipnir’s heart churning. Getting over the rail is going to be the hard part. I just need to let go and gravity will do the rest, the grinding gears will shred to pieces this milk-pale body of mine. I’ll become such sweet nothing._

_I heft my weight up and get a toe against the bottom of the rail. I swing one leg over and then the other, so I’m sitting on the railing and peering down at where I just need to let go and fall. I hope it’s quick. I’ve thought about this a lot, thought about the best way to become nothing like this. I can’t think of a better way, except I don’t know how shredded, how battered, I don’t know into how many pieces this body of mine will break. It’s going to shatter like my heart, all that time ago, my little pale body is going to get beaten bloody and pounded into red, pulpy mess._

_I hope they tell my mother it was an accident. I hope they tell her I fell, I was top-ranked and fell to a clumsy, stupid death. I know they won’t lie, I know they can’t tell her I died a hero like my father, but I hope she never has to know that I did this to myself, that I chose to be nothing because I’m weak, soft, pudgy-knees and too-round nose, too-round cheeks, coarse thick hair and pale-freckled skin. This body of mine with all its deep ache, I hate it -- I hate it, I want it gone, I want to be nothing._

_Tears stream over my cheeks. I grip the rail as I sit there balanced on oblivion. I didn’t want to cry, but I guess it doesn’t matter. No one is around to see except me._

_I should have written my mother back. I should have written goodbye to my mother and my aunts, to my dead father. I didn’t say any goodbyes, I didn’t leave a note. I kicked and screamed at my fighter last night, clung at the rail and the ladder but he pulled me down anyway. Pulled me down and threw me into the bottom bunk, beat into me all that deep ache that doesn’t show._

_I breathe deep and slow, it’s so peaceful despite the loud machinery, the God-awful loud machinery down below. It’ll be quiet once I fall. When I’m nothing, it’ll be quiet._

_I scoot forward on the rail some. I keep my hands on the metal as I stand, my boots balanced on the bottom slat of the rail. I lean far forward and know I just have to let go. I can feel the heat on my face, this red-burning glow, the engines are pounding as hard as my heart. I just have to let go and fall, I’m right on the edge. I’ll become nothing and make this stop, get rid of my body, so I can be such nothing. I’m going to let go, in three-two-one._

_It can’t be me, it’s not my hands, I’m not the one shrieking and kicking because I let go. I didn’t spin for the rail, I didn’t grab tight, it’s not me slid low and sobbing, my sweat-slick hands clutching the rail. I’m dangling, flailing, my hands on the rail where my feet had just been, I let go and it can’t be me, I’m not the one sobbing, it’s this stupid milk-pale body of mine that tries to be something, that won’t let go._

_I grab for the walkway and claw at the grating. I slide down further and hear myself scream. The sound gets swallowed into the deep-metal grinding. I’m going to fall, I’ve got nowhere to go except down, oh God this is awful, so awful and wrong._

_I slip, I shriek. My feet kick at the air. I grab for anything -- the rail, the grating -- but it’s nothing but empty. I grab for something get only nothing, such nothing, and I don’t want to fall. I’m sorry, so sorry, for everything wrong. I would have done something, but everything stops._


	17. Chapter 17

I wake gasping, which is how I know I was out. I’ve bolted upright away from something soft, but it takes several slamming hard breaths and sick-quick heart beats to know where I am. It’s a bed, someone’s bed, these rooms all look alike, and I think I might scream if I see any shadows but the room is so bright.

“Hello,” says Phobos. I know it’s his voice without looking, even though he sounds startled and soft, not at all mean. His voice is so breathy, so pretty and sweet, and I see him lean away with pale brows plucking.

I shudder shaking breaths and feel sweat on my face, my coarse hair sticking and stiff. I stare at Phobos like he’s staring at me, and it’s a very strange thing to realize he doesn’t known at all what to say, that he’s as breathless as his airy sweet voice. That hello was strange, so perfectly him, he had to say something but didn’t want to be mean.

“Hi,” I say back. It’s a rasp of a whisper. I wonder if I screamed.  

He laughs that tinkling fine-china laugh and sets his tablet aside. I’m in his bed, or he is in Deimos’ bed with me, or maybe we’re not in their room at all. I look around slow and figure it out -- I’m on his bed, with all my clothes, curled near my tablet as if I was reading.

Phobos crosses the room and comes back with water. He hands me a glass that’s barely a sip. “You’re better than an alarm clock,” he says. “I’d never sleep past a briefing with you around. Here, bottoms up.”

I lift the glass to my lips and nearly choke as it stings. I cough with my eyes watering, because it isn’t water at all. It’s clear-colored contraband, horrible to taste, but I gulp it down because Phobos is smiling like this is all fun, like maybe I didn’t scream or don’t look so shivery-shaken and broken.

I must not have fainted, I must have walked here on my own. I twist to look at panel and stare at the time. Evening, late, a whole day has passed, but I only remember leaving the sim. What happened at lunch, did I eat dinner? I don’t feel hungry, just trembly and scared, because of that awful dream of the time that I fell.

Phobos has a glass in his hand and drinks at it slow, startling blue-greens bright on my face. I see the bottle behind him sitting on the dresser, but it’s empty now. He poured the last out for me. He sits back on the bed and watches me with his pretty face tipped, studying me without saying anything because I don’t think he wants to be mean.

I want to ask what happened after I left the sim. I remember his hand in that tunnel-vision of mine, where it was just his hand leading me somewhere. Did we come right back here, to this very bright room, or go somewhere else where we couldn’t be seen? Did we go to the ship so I could help with his engines, or was that a lie, because he just wanted to help?

Phobos sips at the liquor he’s drinking. I see how slow he moves, how lazy his smile spreads. His pale lashes glide low over his eyes, and there’s a pretty pink flush that crosses his cheeks. He’s been drinking a while, but I don’t feel drunk. I must have been sleeping, I fell asleep reading.

I look down at the tablet and see my place marked. I remember the story, so I must have been reading, this all looks familiar as I scroll over the text. It’s coming up slow like out of deep cold water, as I remember reading this story on Phobos’ bed, all curled up beside him without touching and both of us quiet.

Waiting for Deimos, we must have been waiting for Deimos, but I’m on Phobos’ bed reading and must have fallen asleep. Were we talking about something, or was he at a good part and didn’t want me to bother him? It’s a lot of nothing, just split-second black flashes, but I think I remember walking myself here. I think I remember lunch and dinner, I think I remember sitting next to Phobos, I think I remember leaning over the seat divider inside of the Equinox, watching him work. I must have done something to get through the day.

“So, you’re a lot weirder than I thought,” Phobos says. “I guess you’d have to be, if Deimos is your friend.”

I glance over at him with a soft frown, because I can’t tell if he’s trying to be catty or sweet.

“What?” He laughs. “You can’t look at me like that and say you’re not acting completely sideways-fucked weird.”

I don’t know why, but it draws a laugh out of me. “You’re right,” I say. I sound surprised, my voice sounds surprised, and the smile I give him isn’t a lie. I sit back on the bed and scrub my hands over my face. There’s grit and sting, so I must have cried, and I really hope that I didn’t scream.

“Of course I’m right. Was there ever any doubt?” He sniffs, so haughty and tough, and crosses his slim legs over the edge of the bed. Phobos looks at me down the line of his nose. “I could push your fighter down the stairs,” he offers.

I laugh again. “No, please, don’t do that. You’ll get in trouble.”

“Aw, you’re sweet.” He says it mean, so catty and sharp, but he’s smiling over at me in a way that’s nice.

I smile back and then look down at my tablet. I mark my place on the book and then turn it off, but I keep fiddling at it rather than admit to Phobos with my face that I’m scared. I’m too raw and rough from my dream to lie, so I look down at my tablet to hide my honest face.

“Come on,” he says suddenly. He gets up from the bed. “Let’s go.”

“Huh?” I turn to watch him as he crosses to the dresser.

Phobos pours himself a bit more of the liquor and then takes it down without grimacing. He whirls to face me with a sly-shy smile, like he’s got a delicious wicked secret he’s willing to share. “Let’s go,” he says again. “You don’t want to sit around here all night, do you? It’s boring. And I finished my book.”

“Oh, you did? Was it good?”

“The best,” he purrs. “You’ll have to read quick to catch up.” He practically skips forward to take my hand in his, that soft little hand of his claiming my own. Now that he’s close I can see he’s quite drunk. He’s smiling so sharp, so playful and mean, but everything’s sweet as he pulls me from the bed. “Wash your face,” he says. “You look a mess.”

Heat floods my cheeks as I stammer, “S-sorry.”

He just laughs and shrugs. “Honey, I was bawling my head off earlier. Did you forget?”

I look at him close and see he’s not lying -- his eyes are puffy, red-rimmed and tired -- but I don’t remember at all when that happened. I must look as confused as I feel, my face must still be too honest because of my awful dream, because those bright blue-greens get serious even though he’s still smiling.

“You are so weird,” he says. “I knew you weren’t all there. From the sim until now, you were so fucking weird. Here, go, get clean.”

He pushes me away and snatches his tablet. I go into the bathroom and run the faucet to wash at my face and rub away grit. Phobos waits in the doorway for me, frowning down at his screen and then sighing, and it’s a sad kind of sigh that tells me he’s not lying about crying earlier, even if I can’t remember it.

“Here,” he says. He hands it over to me. “You might as well. The sideways-fucked weirdo version of you already saw it.”

There’s a short message on the screen, my eyes flick over the text. “How’d you get this?”

His slim shoulders lift and then fall. “I have my ways.”

I should have asked the question a different way so he’d answer better, but then I don’t think he wants to tell me so I shouldn’t pry. It’s just a few short, cruel lines on the screen in glowing green.

_It’s not worth the risk or the hassle, give it up already. It was just good fun but it’s over. See ya._

I don’t need to ask who it’s from, even though it’s signed without a task name. I give the tablet back to Phobos and watch as he sighs. His finger scrolls the message aside before he tucks it away.

“Could you send a message for me?” I ask. “To someone on the Voltaire.”

“It’d have to go to a navigator,” he says. “And I am _so_ done talking to Porthos. Stupid jerk.” His face gets cold, gets mean, but I’m not the one he’s mad at, and there’s no angry heat in the way he tries to act tough.

“Um, the Tiberius. Is there another Ethos now?”

Phobos stares at me for a moment before shrugging. “I can find out,” he says. “You weren’t hot for Praxis, were you?”

“Ew, no,” I say -- which sounds mean, but I just meant it because of Deimos, because Deimos is my best friend and that would be so weird -- but Phobos laughs like I’ve given him a really good joke. It pops the smile back on his face so he doesn’t sigh sad again, and his soft white hand finds mine. He pulls me from the room even though I’d rather stay, because it’s bright with a locked door and where Deimos will think to find me.

Phobos lets go of my hand in the lift. He crouches next to the panel and stares at the controls for such a long time that I wonder just exactly how much he’s had to drink. He’s so carefully controlled with the way that he moves, not at all stumbling or swaying like Deimos gets, but there’s something liquid in his vowels and the droop of his pale lashes all the same.

I’m about to ask if he needs help when he gently pries the panel open and pokes at the back of it. The lift starts to move, and he puts the panel back in place. He straightens and flashes me a catty, mean little smile that’s all sweetness and tease.

As we move along through the station, Phobos looks at his nails, at each thin pale curve, and flicks back his hair when he’s tired of that. “So I guess you didn’t request the transfer.”

I realize that’s his way of apologizing and smile. “Well… yeah. I told you I didn’t.”

His mouth twists into a smirk. “Right? God, what prissy bitch got his panties all twisted up over a dumb-faced jerk like that? Not me, of course.”

“Of course,” I say, with another true smile. I look at the panel and see where he’s taking us, and then I’m suddenly not smiling. “Phobos, no!” I dive for the controls, but he pushes me back.

“Relax. It’s fine. We’re just going shopping.” His laugh is a giggle, softly slurred because he’s drunk, and he leans into the corner of the lift with a bleary sweet smile.

“We can’t go to the fighter’s base,” I insist. I stare at the controls but don’t dive for them again, because I know Phobos is just going to try stopping me, and I really don’t want to fight him.

“Why not?”

“We’re navigators.”

“So? It’s fine. I do this all the time,” he scoffs.

Phobos never went anywhere without Porthos, they were always together, and Porthos is big and bulky like a fighter himself. I bet he knows how to throw punches that hurt, how to fight in a way that isn’t slapping and shrieking, and I also bet anything that I could probably take Phobos in a real honest-to-goodness fight if it came down to it, because Phobos never had to fight a shadow. He’s scared of spiders and ghosts, harmless soft things that he can squeal away into nothing.

“Phobos.” My voice is a whine, full of fear so that he looks at me and frowns.

“It’s fine,” he says. “Honey, I do this _all_ the time.” He flaps a hand at me. “Fighters really are like wild dogs. When they get unruly, you just pull the leash tight and smack ‘em on the nose.”

I stare at him and think wildly that I really could probably take him in a fight, even though he can be so tough and mean. My eyes go to the top of his head, and I’m still wondering which of us is taller when the lift doors glide open. I turn with a gasp, and Phobos snags my head. He drags me forward with a bright, easy grin. “Ethos, let’s go.”

Wrong name, that’s the wrong name, I’m a Pathos now but I’d way rather be an Ethos anyway, who was sweet and met a nice fighter named Deimos and, oh gosh, oh damn, the fighter base is roiling with the scents of smoke and sweat, with sounds of brawling and brash voices. Two fighters stroll past us with a long, confused stare for the two white shadows invading their space.

“Phobos. Phobos, let’s leave. Phobos…”

“Oh, my God, Ethos. Calm your tits.” He lets go and turns to me with an exasperated look. His hands go to his hips, and I wonder if anyone’s ever told him that it just makes him look like a furious teapot rather than tough.

“Phobos, this is really stupid. We should leave,” I say. “We can’t be here.”

“Well, we are here, so you’re wrong. But if you’re so scared, fine. Go. I’m not forcing you to stay.” He makes a shooing motion back toward the lift. “Go. Run along.”

Well, I can’t just leave Phobos here. He’s drunk, I think he had way too much to drink, because Porthos requested a transfer and then sent such a short, mean note about how it was fun while I’m pretty sure Phobos probably sent something else, something as mushy and romantic as the books he loves to read. I was reading one of the good parts before I fell asleep, so I’ll have to read quick to know how it all ends. I hope it ends happy.

He turns from me and there’s just a slight stumble in his step as he starts walking again, just this slim little white shadow heading into a pack of wild dogs. I stand there long enough that I have to run after him before he goes too far and I lose sight of him.

When I catch up beside him, Phobos just glances over and doesn’t say anything -- at first -- but he wouldn’t be Phobos if he really could be quiet for long. He’s as chatty as Deimos is quiet, so maybe command knew something after all assigning them together.

“You know, I told that big lug we should be exclusive, get serious. Before he fucking bailed, and I bet I can guess why. Can you believe me? I’m such a dumb slut, ugh, I actually thought he’d go along with that. Like I didn’t know he was getting it on the side. He fucked Deimos even, can you believe it? My fighter! Like, bitch, show some restraint in targets even if you can’t keep it in your pants. I know you’re on the wrong side of the starfighter for accuracy but aren’t navigators supposed to be smart?” Phobos huffs air sharply and hits against a door panel to whisk us further and further from the safety of the lift.

“Oh,” I say. He’s paused and looked at me like I’m expected to say something, but I just manage that squeaked, surprised ‘oh’ hearing him say this about Porthos -- about _Deimos_. I didn’t ask him to tell me all this, but he has such a pretty voice that I’m not surprised that he likes to hear himself use it.

“Right? Oh, you better believe I was pissed at him for that. Deimos, too, because really he should have known better -- what did I ever do that’s so horrible to deserve that? And him, that dumb stupid jerk, always asking me to get double-stuffed, the perv, I have no idea why I ever went along with it other than being drunk and stupid.”

“Phobos, you’re being drunk and stupid right now,” I say. “We really shouldn’t be here.”

“Psshhh…” It’s a silly teakettle sound, and when he flaps a hand at me I catch it.

I hold his soft white hand tight in both of mine. “Phobos, please. I’m serious about this. You need to leave.”

“You need to --”

Whatever snappy comeback he’s got for me doesn’t make it, because a door slides open in the hall where we’re standing so three mean shadows can find these two silly drunk navigators standing there so helpless and meek. One’s dark, all three are big, and there’s a shorter one looking meanest of all, because his face lights up like Christmas morning seeing these two cream-colored presents all wrapped up and waiting.

I tug at Phobos’ hand. I pull him behind me and stare at the fighters so round-eyed and wide that I’m scared I might lose my eyes entirely, they might roll right out of my head, but I want Phobos behind me so they can’t see how drunk and pretty he is, all that silly pink flush over his cheeks.  

“You two lost?” the short one asks. He laughs, like this is all so funny, so fun, and I know at once that he’s the type to be cruel to whatever milk-pale body he gets alone in the room at night.

I take a step back and push Phobos with my shoulder, my hand, I keep him behind me so they won’t see how pretty he is, how that delicate little nose of his has never been hit bloody, never been broken. Of the two of us, I’m the only one who’s ever had to fight, but oh my gosh, I’m not sure I can fight three of them long enough for it to be much of a distraction for Phobos to get away.

But of course Phobos can’t keep his mouth shut, can’t resist the chance to give some snappy comeback. “Lost? Why, no, we’re precisely where we mean to be. We’re navigators, honey. We don’t get lost,” he says. And he smiles at them, sharp-edged and teasing, drunk enough that he doesn’t have any fucking sense at all to just keep his mouth shut and run for the lift.

“Yeah? And where are you going?” the biggest one asks. His hair is this sandy-dark color, almost blond, and he’s wearing a grey tank top that shows bursting muscles and a scarred bicep. I’d bet anything the scar is from a knife, from brawling.

“Oh, nowhere in particular,” Phobos says. He laughs that fine-china clinking laugh and then turns like he can just keep walking. He hums some, like this is nice, like he’s just strolling around some pretty garden and I am so angry with him I could just scream even though it’s beautiful, it’s so beautiful that he isn’t scared at all to be down here among all the shadows.

“Are you looking for company?” the shorter one asks. He follows after Phobos and so do I, I hurry after him and get between the two of them.

“No. Nope, no. He’s not,” I say. “Leave us alone.”

“Yeah,” Phobos says. He laughs and picks up my hand. “What Ethos said. Good bye! Have a lovely evening.” And he laughs, such a sweet and pretty laugh, and just keeps walking with my hand held tight to make sure I come along with him.

It’s all three of them that follow us, three dark shadows in uniform stalking after these two silly navigators who are just wandering around clueless, lost little sheep separated from their flock. My hand is trembling where Phobos holds it, but he doesn’t let go even when the shorter one grabs at his shoulder and spins him into the wall. I go with him, since our hands are still clutched together.

Phobos is spitting mad and glaring sharp. “Hey! Back off!” He snaps fearlessly at the fighter, all this tough heat in those flashing blue-greens as he sneers that pretty mouth of his, a mouth I’m probably the one person to ever slap for being mean.

“What’re you going to do about it?” the fighter asks. He laughs, like this is fun, so funny, and his two friends both smirk like they’re in on the joke.

Oh gosh, oh damn, if we’re the sheep separate from the flock then where is our shepherd, the sheepdog? Is that me, do I have to get us out of this? I’m not sure at all I can fight three of them long enough to let Phobos run, and he’s so drunk I have no idea if he even remembers where the lift is anymore.

Phobos sniffs distastefully and glares down the arched little line of nose at the fighter, even though the man is taller than him. The other two are tall, that’s the only reason he gets to be the shortest one, and all three of them are big and strong -- fighters, these dark shadows in uniform.

“What _am_ I going to do about it?” Phobos asks airily. “So many options, it’s so hard to decide, but I’m pretty sure up near the top of the list is -- RUN!” He shrieks it at me, shoves me at the same time he kicks the fighter right between the legs, so I don’t need told twice to take off bolting with hopefully Phobos right behind me.

I can hear the fighters cursing, one of them laughing at his friend because they’re probably all drunk too, and the short one Phobos kicked is making a terrible lot of angry, pained noise considering it’s just a soft and silly navigator who kicked him.

“This way!” Phobos gave me the head start, but he catches up easily. He’s got these long slim legs and is as quick as the Equinox flies. He snags my hand, and I’m astounded to see those bright blue-greens full of wild laughter. He grins over at me and does actually laugh some, so breathless and giggling, tugging me around a corner and across an open walkway.

The metal grating shakes beneath us as Phobos dashes across and nearly tumbles down the steps on the other side. He hits up against a door marked maintenance only and fumbles slim little fingers at the panel. He wedges it open like he did the one in the lift and smashes at the back so the door glides open.

We both slip through and the door slides closed behind us. Phobos sinks to the floor shaking -- shaking with _laughter_ , all those drunk silly giggles, he’s smiling up at me like we’ve just played some gloriously fun game but I am just angry at him, so astoundingly mad that he thinks this could possibly be funny.

“Oh, oh goodness,” he says breathlessly. “Oh --”

“What is _wrong_ with you?” My voice, nothing soft and stammering about it, I’m shrieking at him. I’m shaking, and it’s not from laughter. “Get up! Get up, right now! We need to leave! They’re going to follow us, oh _fuck_ , you kicked him -- he’s going to find us, he’ll fucking rape you, me, he’ll fucking --”

It’s like I’ve slapped him, the way that the teasing smile falls right off Phobos’ face. He scrambles up and puts his hands on my shoulders. “Hey, hey -- calm down. It’s okay,” he says. “It’s --”

“ _This is not okay!_ ” Screaming, that cannot be me screaming so shrill and panicked, can’t be me who gasps and shudders on all this tight, choking fear.

His eyes are wide, so wide, they’re going to roll right out of his head. He doesn’t say anything, he’s utterly quiet for once, and he looks almost sober as he pulls me into his chest. I get my arms up between us, shove at him, but he grabs me close and is surprisingly strong, or maybe I’m just so weak, so soft and stupid, this weird and pathetic shaking thing that can’t breathe around all this fear.

“I’m sorry,” Phobos says. Soft, quiet, hushed, sincere. No teasing, nothing mean, not the least bit catty about it. “Ethos, I’m sorry.”

I sob into his shoulder because he lets me, he makes me, he won’t let me go because he’s hugging me. I sob because I was so scared and still am. We shouldn’t be down here with all these dark shadows, and I just want to go back to the room where it’s bright, where we can read the good parts until it gets to the best part, the ending that Phobos said was the best part.

It’s embarrassing after a while, because I stop crying and just lean into Phobos’ thin shoulder. His slim little fingers are moving through my hair without getting caught in the coarse curls, and he’s got one arm tight around my waist like if I went down he’d have any chance at all of catching me.

“So,” he says, once I’m quiet. “So, okay, I am being drunk and stupid right now. That’s fair.”

It pulls a laugh from me. It’s not a pretty sound, it’s more like shattered glass than fine-china clinking, but I laugh and pull my head off his shoulder to knuckle the tears off my cheek. “Yeah. You’re really stupid.”

Phobos smiles and shrugs, so carefree about it. “Porthos is proof enough you can be a dumb jerk and still be a navigator.”

“You’re stupid, but you’re not a jerk,” I say.

“Is that a compliment? Aw, you’re sweet.” And then he tips forward and presses a tipsy-drunk kiss into my cheek. He pulls back and then pats my round face right where he kissed me. He beams at me, like my sniveling stupid smile is something to be happy about -- like any of this is something to be happy about.

“Come on. Let’s go,” he says.

He takes my hand and pulls me forward, because I’m the one of us stumbling even though he’s the one who drank too much. I want to ask him if he knows where he’s going, but I just have to trust that he does or at least that he knows way more about where to go than I do. He keeps hold of my hand at least, so I can trust we won’t get separated from each other even if we’re two little lost white sheep.

A few minutes later I realize I shouldn’t have called Phobos stupid when I’m the one of us is truly stupid. I should have fought Phobos to keep us both on that lift. I should have tackled him down and done anything and everything I could to keep us out of the fighter base, because Phobos has no fucking idea where he’s going -- he whisks open a door with a flourish like it’s going to lead us back into bright-white halls full of milk-pale bodies in cream-colored uniforms.

And it’s just a roil of black, smoke and sweat, shouts and the bruising smack of flesh. Phobos leads us straight into the middle of the dog pack, because that door whisks open to present us with brawling fighters circled around and shouting over who is going to win some senseless, violent contest of fists. Heads turn toward us, all these dark shadows turning and us just these two little white things standing there lost.

Phobos just has to say something. Of course he has to say something, and what he decides to say is -- “So this was the wrong way, clearly.”

I think I might kill him, if we get out of this alive, so I’m the one who starts to laugh. Nervous, terrified, shivering giggles that I can’t control as the door at our back slides closed to leave us trapped in this room full of shadows.

 


	18. Chapter 18

“Hello there,” says Phobos. “Lovely evening, isn’t it? I see you’re having a fight. That’s lovely, just lovely. Who’s winning?”

I’m really going to kill him, if he says one more stupid thing. I don’t want to turn my head or take my eyes off any of these shadows, so I try to look at the door without actually looking. Maybe we can just make a run for it. I glance sideways, first one way and then the other, looking for an escape route besides the closed door at our backs.

Through the gaps in the circle, I catch a glimpse of the brawl. It’s two fighters against two fighters, or maybe all four at once, except one’s little and quick with an arm held stiff --

“Deimos!” I shove my way forward, right through the dark shadows.

In the center of the makeshift fighting ring, it’s Deimos and Cain against my fighter and another, some burly dark fighter with a short buzz of hair. I see Deimos duck low underneath a kick and then roll over the floor without putting any weight on his arm. He’s got the hurt hidden into his flight suit, all that sleek black hiding the bandaging, except they have to know he’s hurt, they have to know this isn’t fair.

Cain tackles my fighter and the two of them go tumbling in a flurry of blows. Cain is terrifying, so hard-hitting and strong, all these long snarls and fierce fists, but my fighter manages to toss him off and bounces back to his feet. Almost at the same time the burly stranger lunges to make Deimos to jump back, he’s so wary and quick, so deadly and tough, but this can’t be fair.

It’s good that he’s quick. Deimos’ grey eyes are hard, and he circles like it’s fancy-fast flying but what is he going to do with just the one arm? He’s right-handed, and it’s his right arm he has to hold so stiff and useless. This isn’t fair, someone has to stop it.

I squeeze between two fighters watching and stumble into the edge of the open circle. “Stop!”

“Yes! Stop! Deimos, Deimos -- stop!” Such a pretty sweet voice, so breathless and mean, as Phobos catches my arm and pulls me back from the brawl. I was poised to go tackle this strange dark shadow away from Deimos.

He’s shouting at his fighter, which makes me think to shout at mine, “Logos, stop!” but that’s the wrong thing to say, so it’s buzzing and split-second black flashes.

If only Abel was here to yell at Cain, because he puts my fighter back on the ground and starts to pummel him senseless. I don’t know the other fighter but there should be some cream-colored thing here with us to yell stop at him, too, because he’s still trying to go after Deimos. As Deimos ducks and weaves out of range I realize he’s mostly just keeping him interested enough not to interrupt Cain, whose fists smack into my fighter over and over.   

Phobos has hold of my arm to keep me from getting in the middle of the brawl, and I focus on that instead of the way my voice chokes over saying, “Stop, Logos! Stop! Cain, Deimos, stop!” and Phobos is shouting just the same so I’m not the only one trying to get this to stop.

I can’t believe that it works, that the fight actually breaks up. The dark burly fighter and Deimos separate to the groans and shouts from the crowd. Cain snarls one last time before shoving to his feet using my fighter for his grip. The crowd’s disappointed because they were betting on this, the outcome of the fight, and I remember Cain asking about the odds in the hanger that morning. It makes me so angry, because he’s gotten Deimos into the middle of this or Deimos has done it to himself, and it’s not fair.

My fighter’s nose is bleeding, probably broken, and he looks a mess as he woozily sits upright. I feel a little sorry for him suddenly as he scrubs the back of his hand over the red dripping ruin. Cain doesn’t have a mark on him that I can see, and neither does Deimos except he is hunched over his hurt arm with a white-faced wooziness. I don’t know the fourth fighter, but he’s sporting a black eye that I hope Deimos gave him, although I don’t understand how because this can’t be fair.

It’s Cain who speaks first, he somehow beats Phobos to the first mouthy remark. “Who let the nanny patrol in here?”

Deimos narrows his eyes at me and then glances to where Phobos has a slim arm tangled around mine. We’re arm-in-arm in a circle of shadows facing down our fighters, and I have no idea what Deimos thinks he is doing because his face isn’t giving anything away. He should know better than to be trying to fight like this, and I can’t believe Cain is going along with it when I thought they were friends, even if Cain’s kind of horrible to him.

“Are we done?” my fighter asks. He dabs at his nose and frowns at the slick crimson smear on his fingertips.

“Probably. You were losing pretty handily,” Cain says. “Myshonok and I were kicking your ass.”

I see Deimos’ head bob in agreement, and he walks over to stand next to Cain. His lifts his chin with a sly little smirk as if to say something nasty, some fighter trash-talking without saying a word. My fighter flushes in a way that’s nasty right back but doesn’t say anything either.

The burly dark fighter shrugs and rolls his shoulders so that there’s a pop of sinewy muscle and bone. “I can keep going,” he says. “Someone get the navigators out of here.”

Phobos pulls away from a grabbing hand and pushes me further into the center of the circle, we’re the center of fucking attention -- dozens of dark shadows watching us, and I am terrified that one of them is going to be the black-on-black memory of my Logos, even though I know exactly how much he’s never coming back from what Deimos and I did to him.

It’s hot and cold panic knotting my stomach and squeezing my chest, but I hold tight to Phobos as he starts spitting simpering little words like that’s going to save him from this disaster. “Hey! Back off! I am not leaving without my fighter. Do you know we’re already fucked over because of his stupid arm? I’m not letting him add anymore time to the rest orders. You hear me, Deimos? What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Your arm is broken, dumbshit! I’ll fucking report you myself for this, so help me.”

I’ll give Phobos a pass on yelling at my best friend, since he’s more or less shouting exactly what I want to say. Only I would try to say it a lot nicer to Deimos, even though I’m furious to think he’s doing this for some stupid reason like when he came buzzing that night I was alone in the room with my fighter. I’ll love him forever for this, even if I hate that he feels he has to do it at all. I never should have asked him to kill a man for me.

The mean look that Cain gives Phobos is so furious that I’m genuinely fearful that he’s about to get hit, so I tug Phobos’ arm to get him out of striking range. I have to swallow a weird little noise when Cain’s glare shifts to me, but then he just glances down at Deimos with a long-suffering sigh.

Cain digs a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and taps one out, which is a pretty clear sign that he’s done with the fight even before he says, “You heard the pip-squeaks. They probably already ratted us out to Encke on the way down here anyway. Break it up, back to work, yadda-fucking-yadda.”

Deimos flicks a quick look up at Cain and then nods. Of course he’d agree with Cain. Cain could be suggesting they all go find an airlock to jump out of and Deimos would give that same quick, loyal nod.

“Does that make it a draw?” someone in the crowd asks. “Who won?”

There’s angry murmurs that spread before Cain shouts them quiet. “I won! Me and Deimos, we fucking won. Anyone wanting to say otherwise?”

The burning end of Cain’s cigarette sears bright as he sweeps a brow-furrowed tight glare over the circle of fighters and then looks to my fighter last. My fighter, who is still sitting on the floor with a red-dripping swell for a nose, he just shrugs and touches at his wrecked face again with an annoyed frown.

“Good,” says Cain. He huffs smoke and then pokes his tongue at where his lip is split before spitting blood to the floor. “Deimos, get your fucking navigator out of here.”

Again, that quick and loyal nod. Deimos motions to us, and I don’t need more than that to drag Phobos forward with me.

“Pathos,” says my fighter. “What’re you even doing down here?”

Phobos whirls away from me and faces my fighter with such a pretty pink-cheeked smile. He’s so drunk, he drank way too much, this is all his fault and we shouldn’t be here, and I’m already so mad at him that it shouldn’t be much of a surprise that he’s just got to get in one last snippy jab, one more catty remark. “Fuck off, Logos, my boyfriend’s got a right to go where he wants.”

“Your what?” My fighter stares at him. I stare at him, I’m staring at Phobos just the same as my fighter.

“Boyfriend! So, hands off. He’s mine.” And then Phobos kisses me -- in front of a dozen dark shadows, in front of my fighter, in front of Deimos and Cain. He tastes spiced like black licorice from the liquor and it’s sweet, too, like all those teasing smiles. There’s a hum from him like he’s found something nice, just like when he sipped at his coffee, and I don’t even know what to do.

Phobos pulls away and smirks over at my fighter. “Got it? Hands off!” He shakes his slim little finger like he’s scolding a puppy and then laughs. He grabs my hand and then grabs Deimos’ hand, too -- oh, my gosh is Phobos way too drunk, but at least he remembers to grab Deimos’ left hand. He barrels forward even though he has no idea where he’s going, humming like this is all so nice.

Deimos shakes his hand free with a glare and snaps, “This way,” in his soft whisper. He walks quickly, that perfectly quick stride of his that’s running away without looking like it. Phobos keeps up with him easily enough, but I’m mad at them both that I’m the only one who finds it awkward and needs to do this strange half-jog. Deimos leads us on a swift and direct path to the lift and shoves his hand into Phobos’ back to get him inside.

“Hey, fuck off,” Phobos protests. “I don’t --”

“Phobos, shut up.” Considering how upset I am, it comes out sounding almost nice. “Just, stop talking. You’re so drunk and stupid right now.”

“Am I? I thought I was being adorable and helpful.” Phobos pouts at me and leans into the corner of the lift. He tips his head back and lets his pale lashes fall all the way closed. “Oh, my. I am rather drunk. Look at all those spinning stars.”

Deimos stares at him first and then looks to me with it perfectly plain on his face -- _what the fuck._

“Don’t,” I mutter. “I’m mad at you, too.”

It’s a hurt look that Deimos gives me, and it’s really not fair that he manages to make me feel so wretchedly awful with just that one wounded expression. It’s not fair, and it makes me mad, too.

“I didn’t ask you to help,” I say to him. Quietly, because I don’t want to hurt Deimos anymore than he’s already hurt. He’s got his arm held so stiff and curled against his chest. The fingers are swollen again, nearly looking blue-black -- he shouldn’t have been fighting like that.

Phobos, fucking Phobos answers like anyone was talking to him. “You didn’t need to ask for help for me to want to help you, silly.”

“Phobos, shut _up_ ,” I hiss.

He snorts softly like this is oh-so-funny. “Okay,” he says. And then simply droops to the floor in a slow pour of milk-white. He tumbles into a limp sprawl at our feet, and Deimos looks down at him with a frown that says so clearly that this isn’t a surprising turn of events. He lives with Phobos, after all, and surely has seen him drunk like this before. When the lift reaches the dorm floor, Deimos grabs one of Phobos’ hands in his left and I rush to grab the other small, soft white hand in both mine.

Together we drag Phobos out of the lift, and once he’s clear of the doors I at least try to find a better way to help Deimos carry him. I get my elbows locked under Phobos’ arms and lift him that way so his head won’t drag along the ground. Deimos leaves me with Phobos and goes to get the door opened for me.

Once we’re inside Deimos asks, “Staying?” He stays hovering by the door, looking unsure of me even though this is his room.

I heave a sigh that’s as heavy as Phobos’ dead weight. How can someone so skinny-pretty and sleek be this hard to roll into bed? I grab his legs and sling them onto the mattress. “Yeah. I mean, if that’s okay,” I say to Deimos.

He nods and comes off the door at last, but he still looks so wary. I shouldn’t have told him I was mad, because Deimos is the kind of friend who thinks I’ll start hating him for trying to help, for trying to be my friend back. I swallow something thick and yank on one of Phobos’ boots. I get it off him and then do the same for the other.

I hear Deimos whisper, “Sorry,” but he’s still too skittish to get close. He hovers instead next to the dresser, and he’s frowning at the empty liquor bottle rather than dare look over at me. I shouldn’t have said anything in the lift, because I hurt him with it when he’s already so hurt.

Deimos looks so tired, so weary and beaten. He reaches for the glove on his flight suit, tugs the glove from his right hand, and I watch with horrified fascination as his face contorts silently in a shiver of pain. He slides the shiny dark glove free so I see the white bandaging beneath that he’s hiding, all that hurt he’s trying to hide. He reaches for the seam to slip the rest of the suit free and only then seems to remember I’m in the room. He glances over, so I’m caught staring.

He’s got a lot to say, too much to fit on to his face. His mouth opens, but I cut him off quickly. “It’s been a long day,” I say. “And a really awful night. Um, let’s just … go to bed. We can talk about it later.”

Deimos’ shoulders sag with so much relief that I just feel awful. He nods and then takes a set of clothes out of the dresser. He slips into the bathroom to get changed, although I bet if I wasn’t in the room he wouldn’t bother since Phobos is passed out drunk. I turn off the light, slip out of my boots, putter around to get changed in the dark, and then stand there looking between the two beds. I remember Deimos sleeping on the edge with his arm held out stiff, looking so uncomfortable because he wants to give me all that space against the wall.

I glance at the bathroom door, where Deimos is still hiding, and I’d bet anything he’s in there trying to get out of his flight suit without jostling his arm too much. I decide to roll Phobos against the wall and take the narrow section of his bed that leaves me.

I close my eyes and keep them closed even when I hear the bathroom door slide open at last. By the shuffle and then stop of footsteps I know Deimos has seen me, and I’d bet anything he can probably guess that I’m just pretending to be asleep. Then again, I’m a good liar, and I’ve had a lot of practice at pretending to be asleep in front of Deimos because I never wanted to embarrass him and Praxis by letting them know I was usually awake when they’d start whispering in the night.

His footsteps shuffle to his bed. I strain to hear the soft sound of him lying down, and only after I’m very certain that he won’t catch me do I peek one eye open and then the other. I lift my head up some to make certain that he’s gone to sleep on his back, his arm tossed up and out stiff over his head and expression lax.

It puts a slight smile on my face to see him look so comfortable, so I don’t even mind that much when Phobos rolls over and smacks me in the back of the head with his hand. I shove him toward the wall again and get only a slurring mumble of apology before he’s out cold and silent. I shift onto my side against the edge of the bed and just stare across at the shadows until I’m asleep.


	19. Chapter 19

I wake to feel of lips working against the back of my neck, of lean thigh muscles pressed into my leg, and there are fingers tickling my hips and ribs, caressing me with such knowing intimacy. Needy noises that are thick with sleep murmur against my hair as the body beside me in the bed shifts and stirs, rubbing into me. Something stiff and aching presses into my ass and that’s when I start screaming.

Phobos starts screaming, too. Shrieking, actually, all these pretty breathless gasps and startled shrieks like he’s woken up with a spider in the bed with him, just like I woke up thinking there was a dark shadow in bed with me.

There’s a wet skid, a thump, and then Deimos is at the bathroom door with wide eyes, slick glossy hair, that white bandaging on his arm -- and nothing else. He’s dripping wet from the shower, I can hear the shower still running, I shouldn’t have screamed and I definitely shouldn’t be staring at Deimos wearing nothing but white bandaging and dripping wet. He slaps on the light so his panicked gaze can flick from us to the door and then the corners of the room looking for shadows.

“Sorry! Oh, oh, I’m sorry --” I wouldn’t have screamed if I’d realized it was just Phobos, I shouldn’t have screamed at poor Phobos because he’s staring at me with big, startled blue-greens. Phobos is leaned back, eyes wide, a hand curled up to his chest almost like he’s scared of me -- oh, I’m in his bed, I didn’t even ask him if that was okay, I just rolled him unconscious into the wall and put myself in the bed with him.

“I thought you were Porthos,” he blurts out. And then immediately after that, “I was asleep. Dreaming, maybe, I -- fuck.” All that pretty pink flush shoots over his cheeks, and I’m sure that my pudgy dumb face is mottled with blotchy red heat because this so incredibly embarrassing. I really shouldn’t have started screaming like that.

And then we both look over at Deimos, almost at the same time, but he slips back inside the bathroom without saying a word to us now that he’s figured out we’re both okay, we’re not out here screaming because of anything he needs to fight. I shouldn’t stare, but I do, because Deimos is so unbelievably pretty, just all these lean lines and delicately built, so tough and wiry, so strong and sleek.

The bathroom door closes, so I have to look back at Phobos -- which is almost worse than staring at Deimos. This is pretty awful. This is completely awful, and I’m still in Phobos’ bed. I scramble away from him so fast I nearly smack my face on the floor. I windmill my arms for balance and careen into the empty space between the two beds.

“Sorry,” I say again. “Sorry, Phobos, I --”

“Pssh.” He flaps a hand at me again, not an angry teapot anymore with that whistling hiss but just a completely mortified one. “It’s fine. You’re a good alarm clock, no need to apologize for it.”

It’s a shaky joke, shakily told, because he looks shaky now that he’s more awake and less being screamed at point-blank. His fingers are trembling as he pushes back his long wispy hair. “Ugh, I feel like crap,” he says.

I remember that he ended the night sprawled limp in the floor of the lift, passed-out drunk so that Deimos and I had to drag him back into the room. It’s all kinds of weird feelings of being angry and scared when I think about what trouble he’d be waking up to otherwise, if Deimos wasn’t so nice, if I hadn’t made sure he left the fighter base after wandering down into it like an idiot.

I just stare him, because even though I was spitting mad last night, it’s a lot harder to be mad at Phobos when he’s sitting there slump-shouldered and looking miserable. He pushes a palm into his eye and groans before flopping back down on to his bed. Phobos pulls the pillow over the back of his head and doesn’t move for a while.

At last his breathy-sweet voice comes through muffled by softness. I knew he wouldn’t be able to stay quiet long. “So I think I remember being really stupid last night,” he says.

“You were,” I tell him. “You went to the fighter base.”

“Did I really?” He sounds amazed. “That seems like something I might do with Porthos.”

And I don’t know why it makes me feel so weird, so angry and frustrated, I don’t know why it’s my voice that snaps back, “I’m not Porthos.”

The pillow shifts aside so he can lift his head up to peer over at me, bleary-eyed and groggy with the hangover that I’m starting to think he deserves. “Obviously,” he says. His tone is cool, crisp, a sharp little jab that I’m pretty sure he wants to be mean with.

I tug at the pieces of my uniform to try looking a little more dignified as I stand there just as sleepy-eyed and tousle-headed as he is, although at least I’m not hungover. “You told Logos I was your boyfriend. You told everyone I was your boyfriend and kissed me. Why would you do that? We’re not even friends, let alone boyfriends!”

I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean that. I shouldn’t have said, because I immediately see the hurt splash over Phobos’ pretty face when I say we’re not friends. He has to toss his head aside with a haughty sniff, because he’s a terrible liar and probably knows it, he probably knows that he looks as devastated by that as he feels.

I’m all those weird feelings again, all this strange sympathy and hurt, feeling mad at myself and mad at Phobos, frustrated with everything because I hate what’s happening, I hate everything that’s happened since command told me I was getting reassigned. There’s nothing good anymore, nothing to make this better, I hate it all so much that I wish -- I wish I was nothing.

I stagger back to where the other bed catches the back of my shaking knees and knocks me into a hard, sudden sit. That’s how Deimos comes out of the shower to find us. Phobos on his bed looking at the wall, me on Deimos’ bed looking -- well, I don’t know exactly how I look, but when I turn my head toward Deimos I see his eyes widen some. His soft grey eyes dart over to Phobos and then he does the same, zips right over to his navigator and starts snapping his fingers at him.

“Go,” he says. “Your turn.” He points at the bathroom, so Phobos sighs and grumbles but does it. He slips out of the bed and pointedly doesn’t look at either of us. He also doesn’t say anything, which is almost worse than if he had some catty remark to give. The door slides closed behind him and then Deimos is over at me with the same brisk snipping.

“Up,” he says. “Aidan, up.”

I guess he doesn’t like thinking of me as Pathos anymore than I do, and it’s nice to be reminded of my own name sometimes. I just stare at Deimos though. He probably wants to take me somewhere we can talk, even though I hear the shower run and would bet anything Phobos won’t be able to hear our little whispers.

Deimos is wearing his uniform with the right sleeve of the jacket loose and empty at his side. He’s got his broken arm cradled into the sling again, and I shift my stunned stare to the swell of his fingers. It doesn’t look so bad as it did last night. That’s good.

I’m not sure exactly if I want to be nothing again, if I was right in thinking I hate everything that much, but I’m considering days, weeks, months more of having to hide or having to be alone in the room with a fighter named Logos. With any fighter, any dark shadow, all those dark shadows I hate because I’m not mean like Phobos, not tough like Abel. I’m an Ethos or a Pathos or something else, some fresh-scrubbed recruit named Aidan who wanted to be nothing and fell.

I run at my thighs some, my hands gliding over my pants.

Deimos plucks at my shoulder, wanting my attention. “Hey.”

I keep looking down at my knees, because I know for a fact that there is no way I can lie with my face right now. His hand falls off my shoulder. He shifts his weight to one side and then sits on the bed beside me, putting me on his left so he can get an arm over my shoulders. Glacial slow, hardly moving at all, scared to offer me a hug even after all this time, because Deimos is the kind of friend who doesn’t understand when people are nice to him, that there’s anything in him worth being nice to.

I do quite possibly the meanest thing I have ever done in my entire soft, stupid life. I shrug away Deimos’ arm -- I reject him, irrevocable and absolute with the way I get to my feet and put my back to him, so I can’t even see what he wants to say with his face. I’m sure I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to see how much that hurts him, because I know Deimos well enough to know that rejection hurt him worse than if I’d broken his other arm.

Deimos is the kind of friend who is going to do anything he can to help me, everything he can to fight my battles for me, because he’s my best friend -- and I think I might be his, even though he’s always with Cain. Or maybe I’m not his friend at all, but I know that’s a lie. Maybe I don’t care, but that’s a lie, too. It doesn’t matter. I’m a good liar.

“Leave Logos alone from now on. Leave me alone,” I say. “I don’t know what you were doing last night, but you’ve already done too much. What do you think Praxis is going to say when he finds out what you’ve done?”

Looking at Deimos was a mistake, I don’t know why I do it. I don’t know why I slide my eyes over in time to see the way that hurts him. There’s so much guilt in his expression, so much self-loathing and devastation, Deimos knows exactly what he’s done, exactly what he went and killed about himself for me, and he thinks he knows exactly what Praxis is going to say -- and it’s nothing good, because I heard Praxis try to tell him something nice before he left, and I’d bet anything Deimos didn’t believe him.  

I walked right in on them talking and heard that nice fighter of mine trying to convince Deimos one last time that he’d be waiting, however long it took for them to be together again, and if Deimos ever believed that he doesn’t anymore. He think he’s ruined it, he knows he has, because Deimos is the kind of lover who doesn’t think he can be loved. He doesn’t think there’s anything about him worth loving, probably doesn’t even understand that he can be loved, just like he doesn’t understand that there’s anything nice in him worth being nice to.

I shouldn’t have said that about Praxis. I shouldn’t have said anything I’ve said since waking up. Waking up was a mistake, and I remember waking up in the Sleipnir’s medical bay with everything hurting and all these machines beeping. I remember being told how long I’d been nothing, long months of being nothing, but then I woke up and had to be something, had to be a milk-pale body wrapped in bright white bandages.

No longer a Pathos, so they thought I was crying when in fact I was laughing, laughing that trying to be nothing worked after everything else failed. I’d been nothing -- I’d been unconscious, half-dead, nearly-dead, battered and beaten from my fall but still something, still enough pale-freckled skin left to put together and wrap in white bandages for months. But not a Pathos any longer, because my top-ranked fighter needed another navigator, and then a station needed a top-ranked team, so I was nothing on the Sleipnir until a nice fighter named Praxis needed an Ethos, shy and sweet.

The bathroom door opens, it’s Phobos walking into this terrible and tense moment that I’ve created, this awful and awkward person that I’ve become. I hurt them both, I woke up and said everything wrong, made everything so wrong. They both wanted to help and did the wrong things, but it was awful of me to get so mad about it, hurt them like I did. No wonder command put them together, because they’re so similar while being completely different, a navigator and fighter team that command thinks will work because they’re both so nice even if they don’t know it and don’t think anyone will ever find something nice in them to like.

I should say I’m sorry. I should be sweet and offer soft, silly stammering to explain how much I really didn’t mean any of what I said, none of it was true because I’m such a good liar.

I don’t do that, though. I don’t do any of that. I just grab my uniform jacket and jam into my boots. I get myself together, and then I leave.

 


	20. Chapter 20

My fighter looks surprised to see me, and I’m surprised to see how his face doesn’t look completely wrecked after the mess Cain made of it last night. I don’t tell him that, though, I just step into the room and brush the panel to have the door close behind me. I’m alone in this room with the beds, alone in this room with my fighter, and I just don’t care anymore. Or maybe that’s a lie, but I’m a good liar.

I don’t say anything to him. I just walk over to my bed and start jerking off the pieces of my uniform. Boots first, tug them off and set them on the floor. Jacket next, I shrug out of it and hang it up carefully. I grab the hem of my tank top and lift it up over my pale chest, because what does it matter? He’s already seen all my pale-freckle softness, probably already seen the milk-pale scars like shattered glass that hide over my back, hide around my hips, all those places where medical put me back together and kept me together with white bandaging until I could hold myself together -- although maybe never happened, because this can’t be together. I can’t pretend like this is okay, or maybe I can -- because I’m such a good fucking liar.

Lied all day with my face, lied that I didn’t care about Phobos sitting by himself looking miserable at lunch and dinner, at the briefing. Lied that I didn’t care about Deimos’ eyes on me across the mess hall. So many lies, I’m so good at all these lies.

“Are you sleeping here tonight?” my fighter asks. He’s standing there right where he was when I first walked into the room, and only now is he moving again. He scrunches the towel at his damp hair and then sets it around his neck. He’s wearing pants, that’s good, we’re both wearing pants and no shirts, no boots, it’s like when Deimos came buzzing at the door.

“Yeah. Got a problem with that?”

Is that my voice, so snappish and mean? Probably so, because I’ve become a mean, awful thing that says all these so-wrong, hurtful cruel things. I’ve become something I hate, something not nice, but I just don’t care. If I have to care then I have to think about it, and I’m sick of thinking about all these things I can’t change, all these things that scare me. I woke up after trying to be nothing and had to become something, became something I liked -- that sweet and shy little navigator named Ethos, who shared a room with a nice man named Marcus, who told a secret to a lean fighter named Deimos, who fought with him against something terrifying and wretched in the dark deeps of the Sleipnir.

Now I’m a Pathos, not the same Pathos, I’m going to be a Pathos who faces down his fighter and isn’t afraid to be alone in the room. I’m glaring across the room at my fighter, who is just staring at me like they’ve put a stranger in this room with him, some cream-colored thing he probably doesn’t think is so cute anymore.

“No. No problem,” he says.

“Good.” I go to the dresser and jerk open my drawer, grab at my things. I head into the bathroom and wish I had a door to slam, but it’s just a smooth rolling glide.

I run the shower hot and steaming, stand under the spray and think maybe Ethos would cry, maybe Aidan would cry, the old Pathos would cry but I’m the new Pathos, I’m a mean little thing who isn’t so cute. I stab circular wounds with my nails into the soap as I scrub it over my skin, scrub those spiderweb scars over my thighs, my lower back, I scrub like I could wash the pale freckles right off my white skin.

I’m red from the heat, red from how hard I scrub, better than being just some stupid milk-pale white body. I get changed for bed and brush my teeth. When I step out of the bathroom, my fighter is sitting on my bed.

I stop and stare at him. I’m not sure what makes me angrier, the fact that he’s leaned back so casually or the fact that he smiles at me as if this going to be fun, oh-so-funny. I walk right up to him and point across the room like commanding a dog. The words snarl out between clenched teeth in my new mean voice, my delicious new voice that belongs to a Pathos who is mean and has no friends to be nice to. “Get off my bed.”

One of his brows go up. He sits forward and cocks a wide-mouthed smirk up at me. “What’s wrong, cutie?”

Oh, was that ever the wrong thing to say. He probably has no idea how much that was just the entirely wrong thing for him to say. I don’t think I’ve ever thrown a punch in my life. I’ve slapped people -- I slapped Phobos -- I beat my fists into Logos, I’ve kicked and screamed and flailed but never actually thrown a real, honest-to-goodness punch, but I watched Cain do plenty of them last night and I can be smart, I’m a fucking navigator and aren’t navigators supposed to be smart? So I can learn how to throw a punch in between the first heartbeat when he opens that sly smirk and the second heartbeat, when my knuckles crash into his teeth.

“Get off my fucking bed!” That’s me, am I so mean sounding when I scream this at him, punctuating my hard-smacked punch with it. My hand stings so fiercely, oh gosh, I didn’t know that it would hurt me to hurt him, but it makes sense. It hurt me so awful to hurt Deimos so awful, to hurt Phobos -- and as my fighter gets to his feet with a dark glinting glare, I realize that this is going to hurt, too.

I lift my chin to look up at him. He’s taller than me -- all the fighters are taller than me except Deimos, who is just-my-size and nowhere near me right now. But I’m not going to be scared, I’m the Pathos who isn’t afraid, and I don’t back down. I go toe-to-toe against this tall, lean, dark and dangerous fighter, this wild fighter of mine, and it’s black-on-black memory but I’m not afraid. I'm not going to let him hurt me.

I split his lip open, or maybe I just reopened a split from when Cain punched him, but either way he’s bleeding because of me. My chest heaves as I breathe through my nose, nostrils flaring as I keep my teeth clenched and stare up at this fighter of mine, the one I have to share this room with, the one I’m going to fucking kill just like I killed my first fighter. Oh, gosh, that’s me talking, isn’t it? I’m the one saying something so horrible as --

“Let’s get one thing straight. I will _destroy_ you if you get near me, if you so much as fucking think about touching me then you are dead. I’ll slit your throat in your sleep. I’ll crash the Pharaon into the ‘Terons. I’ll rip you into a million fucking pieces, don’t you dare think I won’t because I will, I swear to fucking God I will. Get back on your side of the room, stay on your side of the room, and don’t even fucking _think_ about coming over here again. Are we clear? Do you fucking understand me?”

My fighter just stares down at me, we are still toe-to-toe, but slowly he takes a step back. It’s black-on-black memory, and I’m not afraid at all. I’m the Pathos who isn’t afraid, I’m the Pathos who killed his fighter to make him stop, and I’m the Pathos who won’t hesitate to do it again -- because I don’t want to be nothing. _Fuck_ being nothing.

“Sure,” says my fighter. He look wary of me, as wary as he did looking up at Cain from the floor of the fighter base, and I love the way he’s looking at me as he slowly steps back onto his side of the room.

I’m feel pretty accomplished when I slam my hand onto the panel to plunge the room into black gloom for sleep. I’m a Pathos who isn’t afraid to get into his bed and lay there alone in a room with a dark shadow, and I’m not afraid to close my eyes. I don’t even curl toward the wall or hug my pillow, I just lay there on my back with my eyes closed, too furious for sleep.

So I’m awake when my fighter decides to be sneaky and get out of his bed. I hear him, he’s not that sneaky. I pop my eyes open, turn my head, and I’m almost disappointed that he keeps to his side of the room. He’s just getting up for a drink of water. I don’t know what I would do if he decided to come over here. Scream at him again, probably, try to throw another punch. Maybe kick him between the legs and run like Phobos would do.

I grab my pillow and hug it close as I turn to the wall. I’m not a Pathos who needs to be small and hide on a top bunk, nor am I an Ethos jumping at every shift and sigh from his fighter in the bunk below. I’m just me, whoever that is, and I wish there was the glow of a tablet screen to watch before falling asleep. There's just my anger slowing fading, my split knuckles slowly throbbing, and all this deep ache in my chest where my shattered heart beats. 


	21. Chapter 21

That’s just how it is for a while. I hurt Deimos too deep for him to try again, because he’s always scared of getting rejected and I know that, I knew that when I did it, but I did it anyway and now Deimos isn’t going to let me do it again. He’s too scared I’ll push him away if he gets close, so he keeps his distance.

Oddly it makes Cain start frowning at me across the mess hall a couple of times, so I shouldn’t be too surprised when Abel finds an excuse to come talk to me about charts and graphs. He’s not very subtle, asking me point-blank --  _ how are things with your new fighter? Are you getting along? _

And since I’m the Pathos who doesn’t have any friends to be nice to, I just shrug and say --  _ Sure, I guess _ \-- and show Abel what he already knows about the data he’s showing me. 

So that’s just how it is for a while, Phobos always sitting by himself because Porthos is gone and none of the other navigators want anything to do with a mean catty bitch. I guess I don’t know him as well as I do Deimos, but they’re so strangely similar in so many other ways that I’d bet anything it’s the same fear of getting rejected that keeps him away from me as well. Or maybe he just doesn’t care, like I don’t care. 

And I don’t -- I don’t care, it’s such a good lie to tell myself that I’m a Pathos who doesn’t have any friends to be nice to. I’m a Pathos who isn’t afraid to be alone with his fighter at night, because this new Logos of mine is a fighter who I think might be afraid of me now. I wonder if my eyes were flashing tough, that night I screamed at him, or I wonder if he realized just exactly how much I meant every single word I said -- they weren’t hollow threats, and I think he knows that. 

I should be happy. I should feel relieved that my fighter looks kind of wary of me all the time, that he’s the one who doesn’t always come into the room at night to sleep. I bet he’s down in the fighter base brawling, or maybe he found something cute that doesn’t scream threats at him and throw knuckle-cutting punches. I still don’t even know if he was being cruel or thought I was cute, if he knew I was scared or believed all my lies, but I know he roughed up Deimos, he was a jerk enough to do that, so I’m not sorry I hit him and screamed. I think he deserved it, like I think he deserved getting knocked down by Cain.

I should have thought to ask Deimos was that fight was about, what he thought he was doing. I can take some guesses, if I think about the way Cain came over calling me all the wrong names and making some excuse to keep my fighter distracted -- if I think of that day I kept interrupting all these awkward goodbyes, that nice fighter named Marcus trying to ask Cain for a favor to look after Deimos, when all Deimos wanted to do was look after me. I think of all those long snarls and hard-hitting punches, the way Deimos kept circling to keep the other fighter at bay during the fight, I think maybe I can guess just what Deimos thought he was doing, why Cain let him fight. Why Cain put himself into that fight, even though it tilted the odds to make it four fighters at once.  

So that’s just how it is for a while, and I guess that’s just the way it’s going to be. Deimos sitting with Cain at meals like always, too scared even to look over at me, and Phobos sitting alone trying to lie with his face and still looking sad. Even though I’m a Pathos who isn’t afraid of his fighter, who isn’t afraid to be alone in the room, I guess I’m still me -- someone still scared, because I know I was wrong, and I guess I don’t want to get rejected either. 


	22. Chapter 22

Of course it’s Phobos who slams his tray down on the table and sits across from me in a huffy burst of mean little looks and pert pursed lips. He’s waited until I’m alone, for the one day I show up without Abel or Luna or anyone else chatting at me so it’s just me sitting there almost done eating. I’ve got my fork halfway to my mouth, frozen there while Phobos huffs together what he wants to say.

“So, your message to the Tiberius. Still want to send it? I found the other Ethos.”

Those bright blue-greens are glinting at me, glaring at me, daring me to say anything snippy back to him or to maybe say again we’re not friends, that this isn’t something friendly he’s offering me, something nice he wants to do to prove to me he can be nice, he can be friendly.

I slowly lower my fork. “Oh. Um… yes. Please, I’d like that.”

“Good,” he snaps. “Fine. Figure it out and tell me. Nothing long or it’ll stick out too much in the data report.” He looks at me, pretty pink flush over his cheeks, before glaring down at his food instead. He stabs at the chunks of meat in sauce they’ve served us and then shoves one into his mouth. Even when furious and embarrassed and trying to lie about it with his terribly expressive face, Phobos chews so neat and delicate, he rips into his food with such pretty precision. .

“I finished the last book,” I tell him. “Um, I got to the end. You’re right, it was really good. Um, really steamy, too. I can see why you said it was the best part.”

I can tell he wants to say something snarky, that he wants to say anything at all because that’s just how he is, he’s chatty and likes to hear the sound of his own voice. But Phobos doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t even look across at me again. He stabs at his food and chews, face lowered and his hair forward to hide.

I’m the one who has to say something, even though my stomach is twisting up in knots. I feel like an Ethos again, or maybe this really is just who I am -- someone shy and sweet, awkward and awful, my round cheeks and round eyes worked into a worried frown because I know I have to say something. I have to be honest, and that’s harder than lying.

“I’m sorry. Phobos, I’m sorry for what I said. About us not being friends, I didn’t mean that, at all. I’m really sorry I hurt your feelings.”

Oh, that was the wrong thing to say, because now he shoots me a sharp-eyed glare across the table and looks so mean, so sneering and haughty, as he lifts up his chin and looks down that perfect little nose of his. “You didn’t,” he said crisply. “I don’t care at all about that, and you’re pathetic for thinking that anything you say could ever matter to me. You don’t matter to me, at all, not one bit. Fuck you, and fuck your feelings.”

He is such a bad liar.

Phobos gets to his feet even though he’s barely eaten any of his dinner. I stand as well, but he’s quick. He’s got these long slim legs, he’s as quick as Deimos and so good at running away without looking like it. They are so similar and will never want me to point it out to them, because they don’t really get along that great, I don’t think they like each other very much.

Oh, he’s quick -- Phobos is really quick, so good at running away without looking like that’s what he’s doing. I actually break into a run once I see him on the lift. He shoves his hand into the panel to stop me, or rather to try getting the doors closed in time to stop me, but I crash into the narrow crack and squeezed through.

“Phobos, stop running!” Which is a dumb thing to say, because there’s nowhere to run inside the lift. He’s trapped in here with me now, the lift already gliding up toward the dorm floors.

Oh, oh no. Oh, _no_. I shouldn’t have stopped him, I should have let him go, because I get a good look at Phobos and know I’ve done the wrong thing again. He’s red-rimmed eyes and shaking shoulders, tight hurt little breaths and wet cheeks, trembling pink lips and angry flushed cheeks. He’s as furious at me for seeing this as he is furious with himself for doing it, I can tell by the way he jerks away from my hand when I try to touch his arm.

“Fuck off,” he says. He turns his face aside and glares at the wall. Phobos tries so hard to quell the tears, he shivers under the strain of it, because he desperately doesn’t want me in this lift with him watching this happen. I don’t even want to be in the lift watching this happen, so I don’t blame him for being mean about it.  

It’s the nicest thing I can do to look away as well and pretend like maybe I didn’t see anything at all. I step away, get into the other corner, and stand there quietly listening to each of his little hitched breaths. I think fast, think frantically, I have to think of what to do or say to make this right again before the lift stops, before the doors open. If I let him get away from me again I don’t think I’ll ever have another chance, it’ll be too late.

I hate so much that I can’t think of what to do, that I still don’t know what to say when the lift does stop. I catch at Phobos’ hand, because I can’t let him leave with things so wrong between us like this.

“Let me go,” he says. He’s quiet about it though and doesn’t actually put any effort into freeing his hand. He still won’t look at me either. That glossy sleek hair of his falls over his face like a curtain, he’s hiding from me because he hates so much that I’ve seen him cry.

“No,” I say, but I’m nice about it. I pull him away from the doors, I pull him toward me like that’s going to work.  

“I’m not going to just stand around in this fucking lift with you,” he snaps. He jerks his hand away and stomps forward.

I don’t grab him back because of the way he glances for me, just that single small backward glance that’s both an invitation and a hesitance, a small admittance of fear that I won’t follow him. So I do, of course I do, I was the one who wanted to talk even though I don’t know what to say. He leads me to his room, which I don’t like because it means Deimos could find us here, and if I’m going to apologize to Deimos then I want to do it somewhere private, somewhere that’s just us so he can whisper secrets.

Fortunately the room is empty. I bet Phobos knew that. He and Deimos seem to have a great system of politely ignoring each other for the most part, so I wouldn’t be surprised if they have an unspoken schedule about when the room is available. Or maybe it’s just that Deimos spends all his time with Cain now, or maybe I don’t know at all what Deimos spends his time doing now that he’s not spending it with my fighter, that nice man named Marcus.

If I were a nice, sweet Ethos still, instead of a mean, tough Pathos, would I be the one Deimos spent all his time with? I don’t think so, because Deimos is a fighter and I’m a navigator, and it’s hard to get a fighter alone who isn’t yours, but if I was Deimos’ navigator, if I was a Phobos --

Phobos tosses back his hair and turns to face me, his arms crossed over his chest rather than poised on his hips. I’m glad I don’t have to manage such a serious conversation with a furious teapot. Oh, I shouldn’t have thought that, because I have to bite hard into a smile.

Not hard enough, because Phobos’ pretty pale brows swoop together. “What’s so funny?”

“You. You’re funny, sometimes. Not right now,” I say hastily. “This isn’t funny, I mean.”

He sniffs and lifts his chin. “Yeah. It’s really fucking not.” He looks even angrier that he has to agree with me, that I said the right thing so he can’t be mad at me for it.

“Um, Phobos, I really am sorry about what I said...”

“Is your fighter still giving you trouble?” Phobos asks. He so doesn’t want me to apologize anymore, doesn’t want to admit that I have a reason to be sorry. He’d rather turn this conversation around at me rather than focus it on him.

“Oh. Um, no. I kind of, um. I told him off. And threatened to push him down the stairs if he didn’t back off.”

One corner of Phobos’ mouth twitches up before he forces it flat, remembers that he wants to look catty and mean. “I read your file,” he says.

All the air leaves my lungs in a sickening rush. I don’t even know what’s in my file, how he got access to my file, what he’s even trying to say by telling me this, but it fills me with dread all the same.  

He lifts a hand up to study the delicate crescent curls of his nails, those perfectly manicured nails like we’re not out here fighting a war. Why did he ever join Fleet? He doesn’t belong here, except maybe he does because he’s smart and sharp and tough, so fierce and strong-willed, catty and vain because he’s jealous and insecure. He flicks his thumbnail underneath one of those smooth white tips as he thinks about what to say next, because he’s just got to say something always, and I’m too breathless to do anything other than stare.

“I didn’t know you used to be the top-ranked navigator on the Sleipnir, before Miss Perfect waltz in to steal your crown.”

He must mean Abel, he hates Abel.

“I guess I can see that. That sim run you did for Keeler, and the runs you’ve been doing since -- they’re good. Really good. Reckless as all hell, but good.”

No way he looked into my file just to find that out -- no way that was the most interesting thing in my file, we both know that so I don’t know why he’s dragging this out. He wouldn’t be looking at his nails so intently, avoiding my stare, if the most interesting thing in my file was that I used to be top-ranked.

“I’m not an idiot. I know what kind of thing happens around here. All these men, all this machismo bullshit -- and command’s full of pervs, they just care about the missions, about results. I’m not an idiot, Ethos. I know what kind of thing happens around here. In your file -- your first Logos --”

“Don’t.” The word snaps out of me, high-pitched and shaky, because I’ve started to shake. I don’t know what it’s in my file, but I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to know if command put it in my file, if they were callous enough to put that in my file and still not do anything about it. Or if they put lies, and Phobos is reading between the lines, putting the pieces together even though I don’t want him to, or worse if he believes the lies and thinks he knows a truth about me that’s just the same lie I’ve been telling all along.

“Don’t say it. Don’t -- don’t --”

I don’t want to know what’s in my file, I don’t want to know what Phobos thinks he knows or really knows.

“Okay. Sure.” Now he’s looking at me, really looking at me, with those red-rimmed eyes even though now they’re dry and his shoulders are steady. “Well. Just, I’m sorry, too. About being a drunk idiot. I hope... I didn’t make any extra trouble for you.”

Now I’m the one who wants to run away without seeming like it, because my skin’s crawling with the way Phobos is watching me. “Why’d you look in my file?”

He shrugs with a pink-cheeked flush. “Does it matter?”

“It does. It matters to me -- why did you do it?”

His tongue runs over his pretty pink lips, it’s a nervous gesture, and I hear the echo of my own mean voice -- the voice of the Pathos I’ve become, the one who isn’t afraid and doesn’t have any friends to be nice to. His gaze flicks down at my sides, where I’ve got my fists clenched.

I take a shaky step back from him. And then another, because I don’t want to be mean to Phobos. I don’t want to hurt him again or make him cry.

“I was curious,” Phobos says. “Concerned, I guess -- I don’t know. I just wanted to know.”

“You could have asked me.”

“Would you have told me?” His head tips to the side slightly with a calculating look. “If I was to ask you right now about it, would you tell me? Was it really an accident that put you into medical for that long, or did --”

“Stop it,” I whisper. “Stop - stop talking, I don’t want to talk about. I came here to apologize to you, not to have you - you --”

Phobos closes the space between us, and it’s only when he sets a hand on my shoulder do I realize I’ve started to shake again, that I’m still shaking. “Okay,” he says. “Point taken. You wouldn’t tell me, don’t want to tell me, and you’re pissed I went snooping. Does this make us even for you being a total fucking jerk to me?” He smirks at me, playful and eager for me to be playful back, or at least for me to calm down about this.

I’m not sure I can be calm about this, and I jerk away from his hand. My heart’s pounding, such a furious sick-quick pounding, and if my hands aren’t fists then they’re just uncontrollably shaking because I _hate_ the idea of what might be in my file. I hate thinking that Phobos cheerfully went snooping through whatever he could to -- what, satisfy a curiosity? Did he want to read about my sorry career in Fleet like it was one of his trash novels?

The teasing smile slowly fades off his face. He looks me over, I hate the way he looks me over -- like he’s seeing me for the first time. Because whatever he thinks he understands from having read my file.

“It was your fighter,” he says. “Wasn’t it? I knew it. He tried to kill you? That’s so unbelievably --”

I put my hand over Phobos’ mouth to shut him up, and he tries to retreat. I keep with him, desperate to stop his breathy little voice from taking any more guesses at what kind of awfulness there could be in my file. Whatever version of it he thinks, it’s so much nicer than what really happened, and I can’t stand to hear anymore of this. I never even told Deimos about it, never told anyone about it, and I don’t want Phobos to know especially.

Phobos stumbles back and pushes at my arm, but soon as his mouth opens I get my hand back over him. “Hey --” he snaps. “Ethos --”

I’m a Pathos now, but I don’t want to be mean to my friends, but I’m also a scared fresh-scrubbed recruit named Aidan. I can’t have Phobos believe a lie, and I can’t have him know the truth. I am so angry and devastated that he went looking into my file -- that we have to do this, where he’s trying to talk and I’m just desperately trying to get him to stay quiet.

We’re tangling over each other now in a rapid series of pushes and struggling. Neither of us is trying to hurt the other, so it would almost be funny if I didn’t feel such incredible, awful panic at the idea of Phobos saying one more wrong thing about me, about what happened to me.

“Okay!” he bursts out. “Ethos, okay! Okay, I’ll shut up -- Stop --” He manages to get both my wrists pinned, one in each hand, and as he turns with me to keep from getting pushed back further we both trip over the edge of his bed. Phobos sprawls one way and I sprawl the other, tumbling into the floor while he gets the soft mattress.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Okay, okay. I’ll shut up.”

Except I’m on the floor shaking, hands and knees, head down and breathing hard in a way that’s about to fracture into sobs and I know it. It can’t be my voice, but Phobos said he’d shut up and meant it so it has to be me talking. Who else but me could sound so sweet, so scared, so wretched and tough, just this strange shattered-glass sob tangled into words, these stupid words -- “It was me! I did it!”

And then the rest, oh my God, it cannot be my voice forming all this fear and hurt into a soft, stammering stream of horrible honesty. I’m not the one shivering on the floor, hands and knees, head down and sobbing even though my tears aren’t enough to stop all these stupid fucking words that just absolutely cannot be real, cannot be pouring out of me in a vomit of nightmares and memory -- being with Logos, loving him, hating him, being nothing, sitting on that rail, the fall, waking up, the second Logos, those lies, all those lies, I’m such a good liar but now I’m sick with honesty, sick and shuddering in a way that verges on violent. I can’t breathe, so how am I still talking?

Now Phobos is one begging me to shut up. He’s slid down to kneel on the floor with me and is petting at my hair, my shoulders, he’s rubbing my arms and pleading me with, “Okay, okay, Ethos -- Ethos, okay, I got it, you don’t have to -- okay --”

“-- told him I’d kill him, meant it, fucking meant it, I told him --”

“Yes, okay, you totally did, Ethos -- please shut up, fuck --” Phobos pushes my curls from my forehead and strokes my cheeks, frantic to get me to stop talking because of all these horrible things I’m saying in such a horrible, wretched way. It’s black-tunnel and split-second flashes, I can’t fucking breathe so how am I still sobbing like this?

Lips press against mine, once quick and then again, and Phobos caresses my face between his hands with those bright blue-greens startling close. Red-rimmed and wet, his cheeks are wet, his hands are shaking as he pleads at me. “Calm down, please, stop Ethos -- breathe for a second, you’re okay. Just breathe for a second.” His frantic pleas calm as I do, he gets quiet as I do. His face is so close, he’s so close.

Phobos shifts his hand over the side of my face and trails his fingers through my hair. “Breathe,” he tells me. “Just fucking breathe, okay?”

I manage a quick nod. He kisses me again, lashes half-closed in such a strange, sweet expression. He then curls close and brings me into a hug, arms shaking over my back as he clutches at me. He’s silent, it’s a heavy silence because of the way it’s so full of what he wants to say, how much he needs to say something. It’s not in him to be quiet for long, but I can only focus on breathing. I can’t try to understand his silence just yet.

No idea how long I stay flopped into the hug with shuddering, listless half-awareness, but the moment I stir he lets me go. Pushes me away some, actually, with such flinching quickness that it makes my dazed attention sharpen. Now that I’ve managed to calm down I realize that he’s not saying anything because he’s scared to. He won’t look at me even though we’re still right up against each other.

I set my hand on his shoulder, and it turns his head toward me even if his hair is still in the way. I touch next at those wispy-soft strands and push them aside. It lifts his face, so he looks at me with all this wariness, all this vulnerability. I wonder if he knows how easy his expressions are to read. Probably not.

I realize I’m just staring at him. No idea what kind of expression I’m wearing, no idea what my face is saying. Shock, I think I’m in shock of some type. Absolutely nothing seems real. My heart’s beating slow and hard, it hurts to have it beat this way, and I’m still trembling even if I’m at least calm enough to breathe steadily.

Shock, definitely some type of shock. I feel numb all over, so it’s not even like it’s my lips that press into Phobos’ -- not even my hand that cups his wet cheek and brings our faces close. Cold noses from crying, soft lips, I’m not sure I know why I’m kissing him, or why he’s kissing me back, just that we’re knelt there on the floor together kissing and it feels so right that I don’t want to stop.

So I could scream at how unfair it is, how incredibly ill-timed it is that the attack alert starts up a low, steady wail that grows in intensity. Phobos jerks back from me, eyes wide, and then whirls to stare at the com panel that’s blaring at us to get up, get ready, get to the launch bay, get to our ships.

“I’ll tell them you - you’re sick, or, I pushed you, I really will fucking push you down the stairs, oh _fuck_ ,” Phobos whimpers. “Don’t you dare go, not now, don’t you --”

“We have to, we have to go.” I remember about Deimos, about his arm. “I have to go.”

Phobos stares at me with a face full of fear. He scrambles to his feet and offers me his hands, and somehow my shaking knees hold my weight. I’m in shock, numb, did I really just tell Phobos all those terrible things? Did I really just kiss him? He looked up my file and saw none of the truth, so why did I say all those things and now they’re just racing through my mind, fresh and raw. I wasn’t thinking of them when I was kissing Phobos but it’s the rail, the churning hot heat, I helped Deimos put a body over that rail, the same rail I put my own body over, and --

Shaking, he’s shaking me, that’s why everything’s going back and forth like this. “Ethos,” he says. “Ethos, snap out of it. Listen to me. Listen to me, okay? You can’t fly like this. Don’t get insulted, you just fucking can’t.”

“I can. I have to, I’m going.” I turn for the door and stagger like a drunk.

Phobos rushes under my arm to catch my weight. “Don’t go,” he begs. “Ethos, please.”

“It’s Pathos,” I tell him. “And I have to go. I have to go.”

“Fuck that. Don’t care, listen to me -- dammit, you’re right. Fuck you for being right, fuck everything about that -- focus!” he snaps.

I blink at him. Tunnel-vision, I’m in some kind of shock. I’d come here to apologize, that was all, why did I have to say all that other stuff? Why did I have to kiss him? I stare at his lips and realize I want to do it again, I want to kiss him again so desperately because it felt so warm, so nice, so right.

Phobos pushes me up against the door and keeps me there with a firm grip on my shoulders. “Don’t be a hero. No fancy flying. Just, play it safe. Okay?”

Did I tell him about all the times I didn’t care? All the times I just didn’t want Logos to die a hero but thought maybe I’d crash anyway? There’s a new Logos now, a second Logos, like I’m a second Pathos -- or maybe a third, or a fourth, my Logos was still a Logos when he hurt Deimos, when I killed him, so he had another Pathos -- or did he? He must have, but I don’t --

“Ethos! Snap out of it, _fuck!_ ” Phobos sobs over the swear and presses his forehead into my shoulder. “Don’t get yourself killed up there, please. Come on, focus, or I’m going to punch you unconscious and tell command to suck a dick if they don’t like it.”

My laugh is more of a shudder than anything. I rub at my face and he releases me, because it’s less of a wooden puppet motion than I’d been managing so far. “Okay. Okay, I’m okay. I can do this. I got this.”

“No, you don’t, but it’s cute you think you do.” Phobos presses the door open and then leads me out into the hall. I turn the wrong way for the lift, and he corrals me back into the right direction. With her fighter unable to fight the Equinox won’t be one of the ships going out, but Phobos half-follows, half-leads me to where I need to go.

By the time we reach the launch bay the alarms have beaten enough urgency and purpose into me that I think I really can do this, I really can focus past all this strange and wrong sense of numb and shock. I’m okay, I don’t have to think about it, I can stay focused. I just need that glow in my hands, and I’ll know what to do.

Phobos holds on to me until the last moment he can, he holds my hand until he has to let go. “Don’t do anything stupid. No fancy flying,” he tells me. “Just stay focused and get back here safe, okay?”

“I got this,” I tell him. “I’m okay.”

He laughs some, shaky and unsure. “You’re either a really good liar or the toughest son of a bitch I’ve ever met.” He laughs again, raw and desperate, shaky and scared, those bright blue-greens begging me not to do anything stupid, not to get myself killed.

I know it’s a crooked, kind-of-wrong smile that I give him. I scrub at my cheeks, my face, quickly wanting to have it seem like I wasn’t just sobbing myself sick. I wish my knees weren’t still trembling, my hands still shaking, I wish I didn’t feel this wrong and numb and so utterly lost. I wish I was still on the floor with Phobos learning what it’s like to kiss someone nice, who feels so right to kiss.

“Okay,” I tell Phobos. “I’m okay.” If I say it enough times, I can make it true, I don’t have to be a liar anymore. I can learn to be honest, be someone tough who still can be nice - be me, just me, who kisses someone nice before running to my ship.

 


	23. Chapter 23

I’ve got that glow under my hands, and that’s all there is. That’s all there can be, if I’m going to do this like I said I would -- like I said I could. I don’t want to be a liar anymore, I’m going to be honest, and I’m going to make it not be a lie that I can stay focused and do this like I said I could.

Chatter over the com lines, red targets coming up on the screen, calling back to my fighter to be ready, to get ready. Central command issuing the orders, sending us after all these little red targets. Just like in a sim, I’m good in the sims, my fighter and I have been doing good in the sims. He might be afraid of me now, maybe he isn’t, I don’t care and it doesn’t matter because it’ll be over once we get all those little red targets.

No fancy flying, I’m not going to be reckless, it’s just going where C.C. says to get these Colteron ships, get all those little red targets lined up and taken down. My fighter’s good, maybe not as good as my first Logos, but that’s too dangerous to think about, I shouldn’t be thinking like that -- I just got to stay focused, keep my eyes on this glow beneath my hands.

“Pathos, three incoming.”

Oh, oh gosh -- “Where? Oh, see them,” I say quickly. “I see them, hold on…” I flick my hands and tap with some hesitation, because I don’t want to be reckless. I promised I’d be careful. I dive the Pharaon down and then spin softer than I might usually, still banking hard to be evasive but keeping an eye on the levels so there’s only a bit of shaking, no black rattling scream.

“Pharaon, bring them in,” Abel says.

He’s got the Reliant swooping around into position, the Eris right behind him, so I duck and weave us around the Colteron attack to try luring them into the trap. I’m careful, but not careful enough so that we get clipped -- red alerts blazing across all that glow I’m caressing. My heart jumps into my throat, but it’s okay. Just a small hit, mostly the shields rather than the ship, and I decide it’s okay to be a little reckless rather than be too cautious and get taken down for it.

I hear Cain whoop over the com line as the Reliant gets into position and smashes the Colteron ship that hit us. He’s as hard-hitting with his shots as he is with his fists, and Abel flies so prettily -- it’s no wonder that they’re top-ranked, the best, so good together.

“Logos, get ready,” I say. The remaining Colteron ships in our sector have split, so Abel takes the Reliant after two of them and I burst us in pursuit of one lone little scout ship flying off like we’re not going to try getting every last red target.

“Pathos, wait,” my fighter says. “Something’s not --”

And then over the com line, “C.C. to Pharaon, disengage! All ships, regroup!”

I realize it at the exact same time, my hands already flying over the glow with frantic haste. That blip on the sensors, a shadow of nothing, and then an entire Colteron battleship with a formation of ships racing right toward us and this little scout ship I was focused on getting lined up for Logos. I fell right into their trap, so eager not to be reckless that I just became so utterly stupid.

I sweep my hand across the glow and send us careening around in such a sharp circle that is all that black-rattle and screaming, numbers spiraling as fast and tight as the Pharaon spins. “Oh God, oh God…” My voice, shaking like the ship is shaking, and for a split-second I wish the Equinox was out here, even though I think we’re all about to get killed, but if the Equinox was on the com lines then I could try apologizing to Deimos for everything, apologize for Phobos for not being safe, apologize to them both for being so fucking stupid that I’m going to get myself killed out here just when I decided to stop being nothing.

Central command is issuing orders, scrambling to get the anti-matter cannon ready, I’m streaking us tight and fast into this awful spiral even though we didn’t clip off the Voltaire this time -- we just struck up against something even more awful, because there are these little red targets that I know are just about to get us in range, I know we’re completely dead in the water if I can’t keep the Pharaon steady long enough to get us back to the rest of the team.

The Reliant shoots across the radar like a beautiful streaking star while my poor Pharaon just loops and loops in this utterly reckless tumble that either’s going to save us or kill us, but I’d rather try than let the Colterons make the choice for me.

Tunnel-vision, shaking, I’ve got my eyes on the glow and that’s all I see. My breath is slow, steady, it’s a deadly calm as these little red targets and I try to decide how this is going to end. I can hear central command in my ear, I can hear my fighter’s ragged, panicked breaths, I can even hear the thrum of my own pulse beating but none of that matters. It’s just this glow, my hands, me in this ship, one small navigator against everything, and I’m going to win.

My fingers glide over the panel to pull us level. Rapid flicks and taps shift power to where I need it -- I strip our shields, whisper an apology to the engines, tell my fighter in this calm, sweet, soft voice to _hold on, Logos. I’ll get us out of this_.

And then it’s fast, faster, swooping low and curving hard with such a burst of speed that oh, gosh, all these terrible protests from the Pharaon. Blaster shots fly past us, we’re racing through target range, out of target range, I think we’re going to make it, I think I’ve got this. I breath quicker, feel my eyes widen, all that lovely glow and I think we’re going to make it. Central command is counting down, ships are scrambling to regroup, I really think we’re going to make it.

One engine blows, so the ship rattles and shakes with a long, pitched wail. We jerk to the side with such violence that I hear my fighter yelp a pained curse, that I feel all the breath leave my lungs as the restraints cut into my shoulders. My fingers shiver over the glow and tap aside the warnings, I’m going to get us out of this, I’m going to make it, I’ve got this. I’ve got this. I’ve got this.

That’s me, my voice, shouting over the com line -- _“I’ve got this!”_

Like the whole station needs to hear that, it’s not useful at all, oh gosh I don’t think I’m going to make this after all, one engine’s blown and all those numbers are spinning and tumbling. Everything I’ve got, everything the Pharaon’s got, I’m giving this my all and it just has to be enough, it just has to be enough to save us, so we can be something -- _anything_ \-- a Pathos and a Logos, an Ethos and an Athos, an Aidan and whatever his name is, this man who’s a jerk and a cheat, an opportunist and conniving, underhanded and unscrupulous but someone who probably doesn’t deserve to die just because I hate him.

“Pharaon, you’ve got five seconds to get out of range.”

“I only need three!”

Heart-slamming, breath fast, I was calm earlier but that was before that engine blew, before I realized I probably wasn’t going to make it, maybe I will, it’s three seconds to get out of range or three seconds to blow us up because my poor Pharaon can’t take more than that. My fighter’s silent, I haven’t heard him since that yelp, I think there’s blood in my mouth or maybe that’s just the taste of all this fear that’s pouring out of me -- sweat in my eyes, under my suit, I’m not afraid and I am. I’m everything, I’m so much, there’s no nothing to it as I shove the Pharaon into those final three seconds that I need.

Shock, maybe I’m in shock again or maybe it never stopped, my hands are shaking so bad I can barely get us pointed around toward the station. One second, two, the anti-matter cannons firing into the sudden silence of my heart, my breath, everything stopping for me because I know how this is going to end.

I can’t believe we made it, we did it, I’ve got us limping in close with the Reliant, the Eris, the scrambled Blue Team darting past us on the sensors. There’s nothing between me and the safety of the station besides -- oh, that blown engine, oh, it’s not funny, but I think I might actually laugh because now I still might get us blown up if I can’t get into the safety of the station in time.

Somehow it’s an elegant landing, as elegant of a landing as I can make with the ship crippled and the other engine deciding to burst into flames now that there’s oxygen for it. I slap at the restraints and turn to look around the divider enough to see I haven’t killed my fighter at least -- he’s been knocked out but is already stirring with a groan as we settle into being this wrecked, burning chaos in the middle of the hanger.

There’s smoke and such chaos, all this greasy horror, oh gosh, the poor Pharaon, I really did a number on her. Phobos told me not to do any fancy flying and here I am just staring at all these flames with smoke-stung eyes that are starting to water, I’m starting to cough, I’m not exactly sure how to navigate myself out of this mess. Where’s the glow for my hands to caress? I can’t caress these flames, but I can crawl over the seat divider and slap some sense into my fighter at least.

Everything is so very strange, I’m definitely in shock, am I hurt? He’s hurt, I think I might be too, but I can move and he’s starting to move now that I’m yelling at him to start moving. I get the restraints off my fighter, he’s definitely hurt so I can’t just leave him here. Much as I might hate him, he’s still my fighter and doesn’t deserve to die. We’re both coughing on the smoke now, but I bully at him to get up, wake up, get moving, we need to leave.

And then it’s shoving him, yelling sense into his cockeyed, concussed expression, telling him to go, get moving, we need to leave, he better be afraid of me enough to listen because I’m not leaving my fighter here to die. Oh, right, rescue crews -- fire crews -- I took us into the safety of the station in time. My fighter tumbles down the side of the ship, I go to follow him and that’s when the Pharaon decides she’s had enough burning and decides to blow.

I stagger, fall, hear and feel the burst of engine, the scream of ripping metal. Poor Pharaon, I’m sorry, I tried to be gentle, I wanted to be cautious, it was a good run. We did a good job, even if I’ll have to tell Phobos I’m sorry for not being more careful, that I’m sorry for passing out like this. I hope it’s just passing out. Oh, I hope these aren’t my last thoughts before dying. I hope I’m not nothing for long, oh I hope I wake up, oh --


	24. Chapter 24

I wake up to the sound of a one-sided argument, and it’s the prettiest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. I’m so happy to just wake up, because of how I went down, and I don’t even care that everything hurts. I’ll take it hurting, if it means I get to wake up to something, even if this ridiculous one-sided argument I’m being forced to overhear.

“-- don’t see your name on it anywhere. Who’s to say I can’t sit here? Finder’s keepers, or whatever, go find your own chair to sit in. Don’t just snip your fingers at me -- what am I, your cat? You are so rude sometimes. Most of the time, actually, you are always so rude to me. Yes, go stand over there. Look all huffy about it, you’re doing perfect. I’m so proud of you. Great job.”

It’s such a small sound that I make, barely anything, huffing out a tremble of air in the effort to laugh -- because it’s such a silly one-sided argument I’m hearing, and I realize that if I want to see the other side of the argument then I have to open my eyes. 

Whatever Deimos had been saying with his face, he’s not saying it anymore, so I’ve missed his half of the conversation entirely. Maybe I should have tried to be sneakier about waking up, because even though it was such a small sound they both heard it. 

“You’re awake!” Phobos gets out of the chair he stole from Deimos to get up in my face instead. Pert pretty lips spread in a wide smile, bright blue-greens glowing, pink flush over his cheeks. 

And there’s Deimos, rushing up on me just the same, but of course everything about him is far more subdued. Soft grey eyes gone liquid with worry, beautiful ink-brush brows drawn close, apology and understanding all over his expression. I don’t even have to apologize -- I realize that just looking at him, or maybe he sees it all over my face soon as I look at him. I’m so glad he’s here, so sorry I ever told him to leave me alone. 

I’m thrilled to be awake, I don’t even care that it hurts, that I’m obviously in medical and the two of them, Phobos and Deimos, they’re both telling me with their faces that I’m lucky to be awake and hurting. That they’re just happy to see me awake and hurting. 

“Was I out long?”

Oh, that’s my voice sounding so raspy, so whispery and dry. Deimos turns to dart behind the curtain and disappears. I’d bet anything he’s going to find me some water. 

“Long enough.” Phobos tosses his hair back and gives me one of those haughty chin-lifted looks he’s so good at doing. I’m not going to tell him how ridiculous he looks trying to be angry with me for staying unconscious because then I’d have to admit he also looks so cute when he’s fake-mad -- I’m not sure he’d like that, for next time he’s really mad at me. 

Deimos reappears with the water and starts to offer it to me before realizing I’m going to need to be upright to drink. Phobos is standing on the side of the bed with the controls, so he pushes at the button for the tilt. 

I figure out which numb-but-aching parts of me are my hands and then further figure out which one is going to hurt less to move, which one isn’t stuck with tubes. I’m bandaged -- there are a lot of bandages -- but the more awake and alert I get the better I feel, which is nice.

Deimos hovers like I might not be able to manage the simplicity of holding a paper cup and drinking from it. I’m pleased to prove him wrong.

“Three days,” says Phobos. “You’ve been out three days. Bet you feel pretty shitty, huh?”

“Oh, no, I feel okay,” I say. I smile at them, so Phobos just stares at me but Deimos flinches together a half-curved smile back at me. 

“Better awake then not,” Deimos whispers. He nods, I nod, we both know exactly what I mean and what Deimos means -- so it’s really like we said all our apologies and don’t need to feel bad about it anymore. He’s a good friend that way.

I think I’ll probably want to say something to him again once we’re alone, but for now it’s enough just to know that he knows we’re okay -- that I’m still his friend, that he’s still my friend. My best friend, Deimos is my best friend, which is why he’s standing here worrying about this cup of water I’m drinking. 

And that makes me think about Phobos, who is almost glaring at me now for sitting there smiling with what I’m sure is a look of complete idiocy. I should probably look miserable and aching. Oh, I remember kissing Phobos! And, oh, I remember telling him … everything, a lot of things, stuff I shouldn’t have said but it was definitely me saying it. 

That kind of thinking melts the smile from my face, sobers my expression, because happy as I am to be awake there’s still so much --

“My fighter, Logos, is he okay?” I look between them, suddenly anxious, realizing what Phobos said. “Three days? How bad am I hurt? Am I okay?” 

I hold out my hand to look at the bandaging that trails from wrist to shoulder. On the other hand, I hold that one out at well, the wrist is thickly wrapped and two of my fingers splinted and swollen. Most my left forearm is clear of bandaging but tender-looking, faded pink of fresh-healed skin. I’m in a hospital gown, there’s blankets, but I find my toes within the numb and wiggle them. 

“He’s fine, you’re okay,” Phobos says quickly.  

It’s Deimos who gently pushes my arms down and stops me from tearing back the blankets to keep trying to find just where all I’m hurt. He pats gently at the unbandaged back of my hand. 

Phobos keeps talking, snippy and simpering about it like this is all my fault. “Mostly burnt, largely concussed, thank goodness your brain doesn’t seem too scrambled although you’re stupid enough it’d be impossible to tell.” 

There’s a slight smile to it, a smirking tease that catches his lips and softens the harsh words. Deimos glares at him for it, and I think it’s strange that he doesn’t know enough to realize Phobos is being playful, being nice -- he’s only sounding mean because he doesn’t want to sound scared. 

“Burnt to a fucking crisp nearly. Oh, and four broken ribs. Shattered them, good job on that, you were still on the Pharaon when she exploded.” Phobos’ lips press into a tense, white line. 

I realize he was probably watching. He probably watched the whole thing -- he probably stood in central command and heard everything, ran to the window overlooking the hanger bay and then maybe even ran into the smoke and chaos filled room in time to see it all go down. To see me down in an explosion, my poor Pharaon. 

“Oh. Um, sorry. I’m sorry. Really, I’m sorry,” I say. 

Phobos shakes his head at me. Deimos pats my hand again to tell me it’s fine, but then Deimos wasn’t the one who begged me so desperately to be safe.

“Whatever,” says Phobos. He says it like a challenge, daring me to say anything more about it, but I’m definitely not that stupid. The silence stretches comfortably between Deimos and me, but of course Phobos can’t just let it go at that. It’s not in him to keep quiet for long. “Your fighter’s fine. You got the worse of it, from the explosion I mean. Fuck, was it nasty looking. Your ship’s toast. I’m not sure if they’re going to rebuild her or just try finding you a new one, but either way it doesn’t matter because you’re sure as hell not getting sent back out anytime soon. Welcome to rest orders -- Deimos still has us on them for a while, too.”

Deimos lifts his right arm some, like we both don’t already know it’s broken and can’t see that it’s rested into the sling again. He shrugs at me, at Phobos, shrugs off the hurt with an attitude that clearly says he’d be happy to go fight if needed. He’s always ready for a fight, he is such a tough and perfect little fighter, so tough and strong, so deadly and quick. 

I really will want to apologize better when I can get him alone. I bet anything he’ll be grumpy about it, sulky about it, try to run me off before I get started. Deimos never wants to hear anything good about himself because he just thinks of it as lies, because Deimos doesn’t think there’s anything good in him, doesn’t know just how much good is in him. 

Now that I’m awake I can figure out what exactly to put into my message over to the Tiberius. Phobos is going to read it, the new Ethos will read it, and then if I want to get a message back I need to figure out how to ask my question without it being too obvious. It would be a lot easier if I could just shove Praxis and Deimos into a room together and lock them in it until Deimos realizes that he didn’t ruin anything. It was so cruel of me to use Deimos’ fears against him like I did -- that I’d be so cruel as to imply that Praxis wouldn’t understand that Deimos was just trying to help in a very… Deimos-y kind of way. 

These thoughts are very silly, I know that. Everything’s numb and aching, I’m probably drugged but not drugged enough, or maybe it could hurt a lot more and I’m drugged just the right amount. Don’t really care I guess, I’ll take the hurt if it means still getting to be me and not nothing. 

Small touches brush over my hair -- a sweep of delicate thin fingers, but my eyes are closed so I’m not sure which of them is pushing my bangs off my forehead. When did my eyes get closed? I want to be awake, so I force the heavy lashes apart and feel pretty accomplished for doing it. 

All the angles are wrong now. It’s Phobos up close and leaned over me to pet at my hair, but he stole Deimos’ spot. As I shift my gaze to check the other side of the bed, I don’t even see Deimos. 

“Hello,” whispers Phobos. “Are you awake?”

Oh, that means I was out, which explains why Deimos is gone. “Yeah,” I rasp. 

Phobos gets me another little paper cup with water in it. He’s sneaky-looking about it, and he puts a finger to his lips before whispering again, “I don’t think I’m supposed to be here while you’re sleeping.”

“Good thing I’m not sleeping,” I hush. 

He grins and then carefully sits half his weight on the edge of the bed. He looks cautious about jostling me too much, but it’s fine. I’m far less hurt and aching than I was before -- more numb, they must have upped the painkillers.

“You should be sleeping, though. Sorry I woke you.”

“You didn’t,” I say. Or maybe he did, but I don’t care. I want to be awake. 

Phobos doesn’t know what else to say, which is evident by the way he gets quiet and just starts stroking at my bangs again. He watches the glide of his own fingers rather than look directly at me, but I’ve got nothing to stare at except him. It’s a pretty enough view, too, so I definitely want to be awake to appreciate it. 

I should say something, since he isn’t speaking and that means something. Now I wish things were a bit more hurt and aching, because it’s too hard to think clearly and understand what Phobos wants to say with the way he’s being quiet. His face is so expressive, I don’t think he understands how much it always shows just how he’s feeling, what he’s thinking, but even though I’m sure his face is saying everything I can’t make sense of it. 

Oh, my eyes are closed again. A series of long and heavy blinks take Phobos from me, I can’t see him anymore because my eyes are closed. Small, gentle motions still move my bangs from my forehead over and over. It reminds me of the way Deimos patted the unbandaged part of my hand, like there’s so much hurt on me that it’s a struggle to find places to touch me that won’t make me hurt worse. 

Oh, I should explain that. I should tell Phobos it’s okay, what he’s doing doesn’t hurt. I wonder if that’s why he was silent, if he was too worried to ask me if it was okay -- too worried I’d say it wasn’t, that I’d reject him. Oh, that kiss. Kissing Phobos, all those things I said, I’d forgotten about that -- was he silent because he wanted to ask about that?

I’m awake again, which means I was out. No soft touch against my bangs, no Phobos or Deimos watching over me -- oh, I’m alone in this bed, staring at a white curtain.

Well, happy as I am to be awake this kind of sucks. I lift my head just enough to make doubly sure that I’m alone and then let it fall back into the pillow. I close my eyes, but I stay awake. Why couldn’t I feel this alert and awake earlier, when Phobos wanted to say something but couldn’t? 

I hear the curtain slide back and pop my eyes open, a smile already breaking over my face because it’s going to be either Deimos or Phobos, I’d bet anything --

My fighter. It’s my fighter, tall and lanky, wide mouth and pointed chin, that warm chocolate hair and sly smirk. 

The smile drops off my face. I stare at him and realize a handful of very important things all at once. First, he’s up walking around and looks fine, looks completely fine, even the bruises from Cain pummeling him are gone. Second, I am decidedly not fine -- lying down, trapped in this bed and these bandages, probably couldn’t even scream without someone bringing me a paper cup of water. Third, he doesn’t look so wary of me anymore, because how can he be afraid of some soft and silly half-broke navigator?

My fighter looks me over. I hate the way he’s looking me over. I wish so desperately that Phobos or Deimos would show up right in that moment, that my old fighter -- that nice man named Marcus -- I wish he would show up. Abel, Luna, Selene, Keeler, or even Cain, anyone, just anyone so I don’t have to be alone with my fighter like this. 

That makes me angry, because I shouldn’t feel afraid to be alone with my fighter -- I’m not, that’s right, I’m not afraid of him. I’m not afraid of him, because I’m tough, and I can’t let myself forget that even if I’m drugged and numb that I’m not helpless, I don’t have to be afraid. 

I scowl at my fighter and ask, “What?” in my best snippy voice. It’s a dry rasp that sounds even tougher, there’s nothing soft and silly about the way I snap at him. 

It makes him laugh some. “You really hate me, huh?”

I decide to be honest. “A little.”

He gets closer, right up against the side of the bed. “Because I fucked you?”

Oh, the ways he asks it alone is enough to make me hate him forever. I lift my chin, as if I were Phobos glaring down my too-round stubby nose. “Because you thought you could.”

My fighter is a jerk, an opportunistic jerk who is shady and unscrupulous, so I shouldn’t be surprised when he just arches a brow and says, “You were into it at the time. Bit late to cry foul about it now, don’t you think?”

I’m not going to explain it to him, he’s not going to get an explanation from me. I don’t care how much that hurts, how much I think he might be right because I’m such a good liar, he believed all my lies, maybe he really did think I was cute or maybe it didn’t matter, maybe I could have said no or maybe he wouldn’t have cared. I don’t know, and I don’t want to know, and I just want him to leave because I’d rather hate him than ever admit that maybe what happened wasn’t entirely his fault -- that I could possibly be at fault for it like he wants me to think, like he wants to think. 

But I’m trapped in this bed, trapped in these bandages, and I have to listen to him keep talking like I care what he thinks of me, like I care what he tells himself about what happened. He says, “If we’re going to be a team, then you need to trust me.”

He should have thought of that before he carried me into a bed and kissed me, fucked me, when I was disoriented and had just fainted. What kind of jerk does that?

And then I think of Phobos, all that numb shock, the way he kissed me and then looked scared about it, looked so vulnerable because I was vulnerable, and the way he couldn’t say anything afterward -- the way he couldn’t say anything when stroking my hair before. 

My fighter keeps talking, “I don’t care what kind of personal drama you’ve got going on with that prissy navigator friend of yours. There’s plenty of ass on this station besides yours. A simple no would have worked. You didn’t need to punch me and act a raving lunatic about it.”

I hate him, I hate him so much, how dare he stand here when I’m trapped in a bed again and do this to me. I don’t care what he thinks, I don’t care if he thought I was cute, I don’t want him to stand here and tell me this is all fault for not saying no, for telling my lies. I hate him, I hate him, it’s black-on-black memory and I hate him. 

“Once you’re patched up, once the ship’s repaired, things are going to be different. Do you understand me?”

He’s tough now, talking back to me and trying to put me in my place. I can’t get out of this bed to punch him again, I can’t even scream at him with the way I’m rasping and dry-mouthed. All my threats, they’re hollow now because I can’t even get out of the bed much less try to kill him like I said I would if he touches me, if he gets on my side of the room. He’s in my room now, standing in this white-curtained sanctuary because he found me alone, vulnerable, he is such a fucking jerk and I hate him -- I hate him. 

My fighter leans over the bed. Glaring at me, angry because I’m glaring back with all that hatred showing and I bet he probably just thought I was cute, thought it’d be easy, thought he had the opportunity and took it. I wonder if he would have listened to my no, wondered if he would have cared if I told him no. He wants to think he would have listened, wants to think this is all my fault, and I hate him so much that he’s going to make it my fault -- that is probably is my fault, because I’m such a good liar. 

He grips the back of my neck, gets up close. Dark promise, threat, he’s not afraid of me now. I never should have saved his life, I should have let the jerk get blown up with the Pharaon or take his chances with the rescue crews. I wouldn’t be lying helpless in the bed like this if I’d just left him and gotten out of the ship. I saved his life, and he’s such a fucking jerk he doesn’t care or doesn’t realize it. 

“Do you understand me?” he asks. Growls it at me, trying to scare me, he wants me afraid of him -- he’s sick of looking wary of some soft, stupid navigator.  

The white curtain whisks aside. A fighter and navigator, Deimos and Phobos, both pretty and delicate with all these sharp edges -- the hard glint of Deimos’ eyes, the tight furrow of Phobos’ brow -- the two of them are standing there looking so utterly furious and that it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. 

“Get the fuck away from him,” Phobos says. 

Of course he’s the one to say something, and Deimos is the one to come over and get physical about it. Deimos shoves my fighter away from me even though he’s only got the one arm to do the shoving with, but Phobos is right behind him and fills the gap against the side of the bed that Deimos makes my fighter create. So it’s the two of them standing there like a wall, both glaring with square-set shoulders and lifted chins. 

“This doesn’t concern you.” My fighter’s taller than them and uses that advantage to glower down at them. 

“Oh, I think it does. Didn’t I already tell you to stay the fuck away from my boyfriend?” Phobos shakes his finger like scolding a puppy. “Shoo, go, go away, get. Don’t come back. If I catch you sulking around here again then you’re toast.”

Deimos flicks his left hand down and out so a knife jumps into his palm. He lifts it in a tsking motion to help back Phobos’ threat. The two of them might not get along so great, but they don’t do awful in the rankings for a reason -- much as they fight each other, they also know how to fight together. 

My fighter sweeps a glare over the three of us, such a dark and idle glare, because now we’ve wounded his pride. I can tell he’s more upset about being run off like this than he ever was about me hitting him, screaming at him, probably because that was just between us and now this is something even messier. I never should have saved the jerk’s life -- although I guess even though I hate him, he didn’t deserve to die, so I’m glad I did it. I guess.

Once he’s gone and Deimos has whisked the curtain back into place, he and Phobos take up positions on either side of my bed again. 

“Are you okay?” Phobos asks. He touches carefully at my bangs, and Deimos pats that little section of unbandaged skin he found. 

I nod without actually looking at either of them, because maybe it’s a little embarrassing. Phobos strokes my hair again even though it makes Deimos stare at him. I owe them both a lot of explanation, need to ask them both a lot of questions, but it’s the kind of conversation that needs to be had privately, and there’s no way I’m asking either one of them to leave right now. 

“What a jerk,” Phobos says. Deimos nods his agreement.

I think they’re trying to get me to smile, which is sweet of them, but I really just want to be left alone about it. Not alone in this bed, this white-curtained prison, I don’t want to be left alone here even though I’d really just like to be left alone in general. Which makes no sense, and I know that it doesn’t make any sense, but surely if I’m this hurt and scared then I don’t have to make any sense. 

The two of them exchange a look and then nod, each firm about it. Deimos asking, Phobos agreeing, or maybe Phobos asking and Deimos agreeing. Either way, it’s a pact between them.

And then Phobos has to say something, he just has to run his mouth because he’s chatty that way, he likes the sound of his own voice and I like it, too, I like listening to his airy little voice simper and whine about nothing in particular. I let my eyes close even though I’m not especially tired and listen to the one-sided argument he picks with Deimos about something insignificant and trivial. I don’t care what it is, just so long as it isn’t about me, my problems, my stupid jerk of a fighter. 

I fall asleep listening to that one-sided conversation and know next time I wake up, one of them will be there. Which is exactly what happens, because of that unspoken pact they arranged about me, right in front of me, so no matter if my eyes are open or my eyes are closed I have at least one of them within my white-curtained prison. It’s a lot of that, just being hurt and feeling scared, knowing I’m not alone at least, coming awake and going asleep like long, heavy blinking.

Since I know I have to have an awkward conversation with each of them, I pick Deimos first since he’ll be both easiest and hardest. I don’t mean to startle him with it as terribly as I do, because I don’t realize he thinks I’m asleep until I see the way he jumps some when I say his name. “Hey, Deimos?”

He sits fully upright in the chair and then stands. He pats at the back of my hand as he gets close, those beautiful ink-brush brows plucked together in concern. 

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, denying that I need to apologize just like I knew he would. 

I keep going, because he needs to hear it. “You know that Praxis is going to forgive you, right? He’ll understand. I’ll help you explain it. You were just trying to help -- I know that, and he’s going to know that too.”

Deimos scowls at me and pulls his hand away. He turns his face aside to hide behind the sleek, glossy fall of his long bangs. 

“It’s true. He’s crazy about you. It’ll be okay, Deimos. I’ll help you explain it, since this is my fault, too.”

He shakes his head. “My fault,” he whispers. “Going to hurt him. Always hurting him.” And then his soft secretive voice lowers even further, softens even further, becomes so much nothing as he hushes, “Hard to love me.”

I pull my lower lip into my teeth. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, I never try to eavesdrop, but that didn’t stop me from overhearing what Praxis said to Deimos one night, one of those terribly tense nights after the Reliant crashed. “I don’t think Praxis meant it like that… I think, just, that being in love with someone -- with anyone -- it’s hard, because they’re going to do things that hurt you. It - it makes you vulnerable, to love someone, because they can hurt you with it. Even if they don’t mean to. Praxis has done things that hurt you, too, right?”

Deimos hesitates before slowly nodding. He flinches a glance at me and then looks away just as quick. “Love him. Don’t want to hurt him.”

“Well, I’m sure he doesn’t want to hurt you either, but it’s going to happen. Which is okay. It doesn’t mean that it’s not worth trying, even when it’s hard. I’m sure he feels the same way. It’ll work out, Deimos. You’ll see. It’ll be okay.”

His hand reaches out and curls against the back of mine, over that patch of unhurt skin. Deimos doesn’t say anything, but I know what he means. I’m not sure he believes me, but at least I said what I wanted to say so he knows it, even if he doesn’t believe me. 

I keep thinking that I’ll say something to Phobos, too, that we’ll get to have an even more awkward and awful conversation. Except whenever I have Phobos alone with me, I can’t seem to find any words to use. My tongue just gets tangled up, so I end up lying there quietly while he prattles on about whatever pops into his pretty blond head. 

Sometimes he brings his tablet and reads to me, so the time passes easily with his breathless soft voice gasping dramatically in all the right places and giving the characters different voices -- it’s as nice to listen to him read as is it to watch him read, and it’s so nice that I don’t want to make it awkward. Maybe it doesn’t have to be awkward. He doesn’t seem awkward about it, all the stuff I said, kissing him, even if he hasn’t tried to kiss me again, hasn’t mentioned what I told him. 

I guess that’s okay. So long as I’m trapped in this white-curtained prison, it’s probably for the best. I wouldn’t want to make it so awkward he leaves, so awkward that he doesn’t come back. Maybe he just doesn’t want to talk about it -- doesn’t want to have to admit it happen at all. I feel the same way, about everything I told him, although as I lay there listening to him read, I find myself watching his lips and thinking all kinds of awkward but not awful things. 

 


	25. Chapter 25

Deimos’ arm is out of the sling by the time they let me out of the medical bay, so he uses both hands to help me stay balanced while Phobos coaxes my other boot into place. It’s a little embarrassing to need their help getting put into my uniform so I can leave, but I’d rather not fall on my face and prolong my stay within this stupid white-curtained prison. I’m thrilled to be leaving, and I honestly don’t even feel that awful.

The index and middle fingers on my left hand are broken, same with my left wrist, so Deimos holds my weight carefully to avoid hurting me. I tell him, “Thanks,” and just get a shrug.

“No problem,” says Phobos. “You’re stupid enough to re-injure yourself just trying to get dressed, so someone has to keep that from happening. What?” he asks, catching the way Deimos glares at him. “Just because you don’t have a sense of humor doesn’t mean everyone else can’t take a joke. Ethos knows he’s way smarter than me.”

Phobos straightens up and grabs my jacket off the bed. He holds it out so I can carefully slide one arm in first and then the other. My left side took the brunt of the fall, my right side took the worst of the explosion, so I’m burnt on one side and broken on the other. But I can walk myself out of medical, and they’re sending me off with bandaging, painkillers, and instructions to come back next week to get more of each.

Without discussion, Phobos and Deimos take me to their room. Not surprising, given the last time my fighter and I exchanged words, although what is a surprise is when the door glides open to reveal a room already full of people. Luna, Selene, Abel -- and Cain, a dark spot of soot seated next to his navigator on Deimos’ bed while the two other navigators huddle across on Phobos’ bed.

They all turn toward the door with big smiles (except Cain) and say, “Welcome back, Pathos!”

Phobos stops up short at the sight of Cain and demands, “What’re you doing here? The invitation was navigators only!” He glares at Abel specifically.

“Heard there’d be booze,” Cain replies with an easy shrug. He flashes a too-sharp grin that sets Abel into blushing.

Deimos steps into the room and shoots Phobos a telling look, so I have no doubt that Deimos was the one to invite Cain. Or maybe Abel did it, and Deimos is silently berating Phobos for inviting him -- even if they both know that I like Abel.

“Well, surprise anyway,” Phobos says to me. “I thought you’d want to celebrate getting out of medical properly.”

I’d rather just listen to Phobos read to me, but this is nice. Everyone fusses over making sure I get a spot to sit, and then no one offers me any of liquor as Phobos breaks out a bottle and starts filling glasses. When he asks I show Abel my cast and the finger splints, and then Cain starts talking to me about how annoying broken ribs are in a very authoritative voice. Later, once everyone except me is pretty drunk, Cain takes off his shirt to show off the burn scars on his back, but I politely refuse to do the same. I do at least take off my jacket to show the fresh-healed spots on my arms, and it makes everyone clap softly because they’re quite drunk.

Selene leaves first, and then Luna, and I suspect Abel wants to leave except Cain and Deimos won’t stop arm-wrestling using their off-hands so Cain won’t re-break Deimos’ right arm.

“How do you keep doing this?” Cain demands, as Deimos wins yet again.

“Cain, it’s late,” Abel finally says. I was right about him wanting to leave.

“One more,” says Cain.

Deimos smirks and sets his elbow on to the dresser. Next to me on the bed, Abel sighs and turns his empty glass around in his hands. He smiles over at me and asks, “Do you need any help getting back to your room?”

Phobos flops down beside me on the bed and drapes a warm, heavy arm over my shoulders. There’s all this pretty pink flush across his cheeks, a brilliantly drunk smile catching his lips. He leans around me toward Abel. “He’s good here, honey, but thanks for asking.”

Across the room, Deimos slams Cain’s hand down on to the dresser again. “Son of a bitch!” Cain kicks at the empty bottle on the floor so it goes spinning into Abel’s feet. He follows it over and grabs Abel up from the bed by the hand.

“All right, princess, let’s get you your beauty sleep. See ya, kiddo.” He nods goodbye to Deimos and doesn’t so much as look at me or Phobos before leaving with an arm around Abel’s waist.

“Well,” I say. “That was a fun party.” I’m trying not to focus too much on the fact that Phobos is still half-draped over me, half-pressed into me, his chin settled into my shoulder and that arm still around me.

“Did you like it? Had fun?” Phobos lifts up from my shoulder and smiles, those bright blue-greens unfocused but aimed at me anyway. Oh, dear, how much did he have to drink?

It puts a matched smile on my face, and I stare at his lips until I remember Deimos is in the room. I turn my head to look at him over by the dresser, and I find Deimos just staring at us with an obvious question all over his face.

Oh, I can feel the heat filling my cheeks just from the way Deimos is staring. Since I have no idea how to answer him -- and I’m sure that’s all over my face, since I’m not trying to lie -- he walks forward and bullies Phobos off me under the pretense of clearing his bed in general. I hop up as well, although much slower on account of my ribs.

Phobos wanders over to check on the second bottle of liquor, which still has a little sloshing around in the bottom. He lifts it to his lips and drains it with a shivering little, “Ooh! That stings.” He hums and sets the empty bottle on the dresser before whisking his way into the bathroom.

I hear the sink running, and Deimos turns on me as soon as he thinks he can get away with whispering -- “Staying here.”

It’s not a question, not at all, but I nod anyway as if it was. He nods as well and then glances at the bathroom door. Both of us are blushing, because I know exactly what Deimos is about to ask. I see the words bubbling and stirring on his expression before he manages -- “Like him?”

“Oh.” I bite at my lip. It’s like the Pharaon exploding all over again, so much heat fills my face.

Deimos struggles to keep a neutral expression, because he doesn’t need me to answer with anymore detail than that. He nods and then grabs up his pillow and blanket.

“W-wait.” I catch his arm. He stops and looks at me, shifts his gaze to the closed bathroom door where Phobos is probably brushing his teeth or doing whatever else to get ready for bed.

“Need me to stay?” Deimos asks.

As if I could possibly be intimidated to be alone in the room with _Phobos_ , of all people. Except then I realize what he really means to ask if I need a fighter in the room, because of all the times Praxis had to make sure to come back to the room and how I always set the mattresses together like an invitation for them.

“Oh.” I bite at my lip again. I’m not exactly debating what Deimos thinks I am. There are both reasons I do and do not want to be alone with Phobos, and none of them have to do with dark shadows. I know it's silly to debate this, since he sat alone with me plenty of times while I was trapped in that white-curtained bed. I've had plenty of chances to talk to him and haven't yet.

At last I shake my head and say, “But you don’t have to leave.”

Deimos shrugs. “Fine. Owe you this. Put up with us.”

A small glimmer of regret and sadness passes over his expression, same as always when he gets reminded of Praxis and has to remember he’s not here anymore, they’re not together anymore. I hope Deimos has thought a lot about what I told him. I hope he believes it, and I hope he knows that Praxis will be waiting for him still whenever they do manage to be together again.

When Phobos wanders out of the bathroom again with his flushed face scrubbed even pinker and the hair nearest his face damp, he finds me seated on Deimos’ bed and him gone with his pillow and blanket to find somewhere else to sleep for the night. Phobos stops, stares, and then looks around the small room with obvious drunken confusion.

“Where’d Deimos go?”

I shrug, because I don’t want to admit that he left to give us privacy. Which now I’m kicking myself for doing, because I’m sober and Phobos is very cheerfully drunk. I look away hastily when Phobos shucks out of his boots, socks, jacket, and pants. I take a peek to see he leaves his tank top and boxers, but I only look fully once Phobos drapes himself into his bed with a contented sigh. He snags his tablet and then reaches up to get the light.

After only a few seconds he turns the light back on and stares over at me. “Oh, right,” he says. “Sorry, forgot you still needed to brush up and stuff. You can borrow whatever of mine to sleep in if you want.” He gestures casually at the dresser. “Top drawer’s mine.”

Because I’m a coward, I just say, “Okay, thanks,” and go into the bathroom.

I grip at the sink with my right hand and silently call myself all kinds of terrible things, because I am such a total fucking idiot. I never should have made poor Deimos go sleep on a floor somewhere just so I could awkwardly not say anything to Phobos yet again. He hasn’t said anything to me, either, so it’s like nothing at all happened between us before I ran off to blow up my poor ship.

With the two broken fingers and banged up wrist, my left hand is mostly useless. I slip back out of the bathroom still in every piece of my uniform and hate that I have to ask, “Phobos? Can you help me with my boots and jacket?”

“Hm?” He looks up from the tablet and smiles. “Oh, sure thing. Come over here, sit.”

He slips from the bed as I sit on the edge. He kneels down and slips off my boots for me before sitting next to me again and gently helping me shrug out of my jacket. Even drunk he remembers to be careful, so the fabric doesn’t slide too much against the bandages or pull on the broken parts.

“Thanks,” I tell him.

Phobos grins with a sharp, mean edge to it, all catty but sweet all the way through like when he teases this way. “Need help getting out of your pants?”

I must go a million shades of scarlet. I jerk to my feet much too quickly and wince, hand flicking to my side without actually touching at the broken ribs beneath my tank top and mottled blue-black bruising. I don’t know why I ever told Deimos he should leave the room. I wish desperately I hadn’t told Deimos to leave the room.

Something clouds over Phobos’ expression and leaves him looking more sober. “Teasing,” he says. “Just … teasing. Sorry.” He flushes and then shifts back into his bed. Slowly he slides under the blankets and curls around his tablet. “Sorry,” he murmurs again.

I stare at him, heart pounding. It just blurts out of me, no finesse to it, none of the words I practiced in my head over and over all that time I spent in medical thinking. No, of course I just snap it out in the strangest, wrongest, most awkwardly awful way. “Why’d you kiss me?”

Not what I wanted to ask, not how I should have asked it, not the right way to ask him something like that -- not the right time to ask him, either, because I’m sober and Phobos is decidedly not.

His thin shoulders go up and down without him lifting his gaze from the screen. His eyes aren’t moving though, I can tell he isn’t really reading it but just staring down at the tablet to avoid having to look at me. “Does it matter?” he asks quietly. “Forget about it. I was being stupid.”

Oh. Oh, no. I definitely shouldn’t have asked it like that, shouldn’t have asked it now. But I can’t very well leave it at that, now that I’ve started this terrible conversation. Rather than say anything right away though I at least think it over, but the longer I stay silent the more Phobos starts to look like he might cry. Even though he’s still just staring at his tablet it’s obvious, because I can just see the hurt building in him.

I have to blurt out something else, quickly, so what he gets from me is just, “I don’t think it was stupid.”

It makes him flick his gaze up at me.

I keep going, encouraged by that single wary glance. “I didn’t think it was stupid. I - I thought it was nice. I think you’re nice. Nice-looking. And, just, nice. You’re nice.”

I sound like the drunk one. I sound the stupid one. I am a complete rambling idiot, but I’ve never had a conversation like this. I kissed my cotillion date’s brother once, and it was one of the singularly most humiliating and strange experiences of my life because he told me _nevermind_ and ran away afterward. I’d never kissed anyone else until Logos, my first Logos, my first for a lot of things, and I have no idea why I am thinking about that. It sets my hands into shaking, the back of my neck into sweating, or maybe that’s just because I am so fucking nervous as Phobos stares at me.

Pale lashes glided low over his eyes, pink lips spread open in a dazed, lazy kind of way, oh he isn’t quite as drunk as the night we went to the fighter base but he’s still drunk -- I picked the wrong time for this conversation, the worst time for this conversation, we shouldn’t be trying to talk about this now.

He must see that all over my expression, or I’m not sure at all what he’s seeing as he stares at me, but it makes him sit upright in the bed. “Ethos,” he says -- he’s never onced used my new task name, so each time he says _Ethos_ it sounds like my real name. “Ethos, I didn’t kiss you to be _nice_.”

There’s nothing mean in the way he says it, just everything kind of sad and wretched. I shuffle a little closer to where he’s sitting. I gesture and get a shrug for an answer, which is answer enough for me to sit on the edge of the bed. He fiddles with the tablet in his lap and doesn’t look over at me, his silence so utterly painful.

I dare to scoot a little closer to him. I touch at his knee, which stops his fingers from turning the tablet on and off again. I turn my knees into his, and that lifts his face slightly. When I lean forward, he lifts his head up all the way, and then our lips press together.

Phobos draws in a soft breath and moves closer. He tastes spiced like black licorice from the liquor, even with the mint of his toothpaste over that, and his lips are just so soft. I watch the closed curve of his pale lashes, the sweet earnestness to his expression, and then I close my eyes as I tip further into the kiss.

Small, delicate hands touch lightly at my arms in their search for a place to hold me where I’m not hurt, where the skin isn’t still bandaged or tenderly fresh-healed. Phobos settles one hand against the back of my neck and sets the other through my bangs, and the familiarity of the gesture from all the times I’d wake to him doing it in medical, oh, it makes me shiver some.

He’s the one who pulls us apart. His breath tickles over my lips as he just stares, so kissably-close still, bright blue-greens fixed on me beneath the plucked together worry of his brow. He’s drunk enough to be honest, to blurt out something as well. “I thought you didn’t like me.”

I answer him by seeking out his lips again, by setting my hand between the jut of his shoulder blades and drawing him closer to me. It feels just like before I ran off to blow up the Pharaon, it feels so right. He hums softly as if agreeing, even though I didn’t say anything about it being right. He must feel it, too, he must feel this same kind of spreading warmth.

“Tell me if it hurts,” Phobos murmurs softly. His hand runs over my upper arm just lightly, finding the places I’m not burnt to caress.

I wish he hadn’t said it quite that way, even though I know what he means. I focus on the soft flex of his lips and then the run of his tongue over my lower lip. He nips at me, just so softly, and hums again.

He’s not going to keep quiet, which is just so like him. The words whisper between kisses. “You… I thought you didn’t...  Mmn, I thought --”

Maybe if I keep kissing him like this, he’ll stop trying to tell me how much I should have said something while I was in medical. How much I probably never should have popped off and told him we weren’t friends, because I think Phobos knows exactly how unpopular he is among the navigators.

Phobos ducks his head and kisses at my throat. I whine softly and tilt my head back, because it feels so good. His hand runs along my side -- well clear of my ribs -- and then rests against my hip. Those slim little fingers of his pluck at my waistband, find the clasp.

A hard-hitting ache pounds into my chest and makes it hard to breathe. Phobos slips from the bed to kneel in front of me, and there is so much wicked, playful, sweet teasing in the way he smiles at me, so pretty and perfect. Hurt flares along my ribs as I take these strange, short breaths through my nose. All that pounding ache intensifies, my vision is almost vibrating with how incredibly hard my heart is beating.

Phobos huffs soft, silly-drunk laughter and kisses at the fabric over my thigh. His fingers wiggle and tease before working my pants open and starting to tug them over my hips. He glances up at me with another wicked smile, intent so absolutely clear as he pulls at my pants.

It just blurts out of me -- high-pitched, fast, undeniably panicked, “Stop!”

He does so, immediately, hands snatching into an odd, prissy clutch under his chin. Phobos jerks back from me, eyes wide for the tone I used, for the way I'm staring at him.

I am shaking head to toe, shaking so hard, breathing so hard, my heart pounding so hard. I think I might faint, I feel so queasy-sick and it’s tunnel-vision, black, my ribs on fire with hurt. One of us is making noise, oh, oh damn, oh fuck, that’s me, I’m the one whimpering on each rushed and panicked breath.  

“Ethos?” he whispers. Still on the floor, but slowly shifting toward me. Not going for my pants again, no, he’s just trying to get back on the bed without spooking me off it. “Hey… here, lean back. Lay down. It’s okay.”

He’s worried I’m going to pass out, but I resist his hands when he reaches to help me. I stumbled off the bed and then don’t know what to do, so it’s all this strange staggering and making these weird terrible noises and knowing that it’s awful but not knowing what to do. My knees start to buckle and Phobos jumps up to catch me. He flinches about it, like he’s scared that was the wrong thing to do, but I let him put me back on the bed.

I swallow rapidly and feel the worst of the vertigo fade, now that I'm sitting again. “S-sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says. Confused-sounding, wary, incredibly worried. He hesitates a touch toward me and, when I don’t flinch, brushes so tenderly at my bangs. “Please lay down. I think you might black out, and with your ribs I can’t have you do the head-between-the-knees trick.” He fractures a tight, tense, incredibly concerned and fragile smile at me.

I do what he says, especially since he moves to give me the bulk of the space on the narrow bed. He sits near my shoulder and just strokes the hair off my sweat-sticky forehead for a while. Lying down makes me feel better, less damaged, even though it makes me realize just what a fucking disaster I just made of things.

Phobos doesn’t say anything. He runs his fingers through my hair, and as I lay there looking up at him I am so incredibly mad at myself. I have no idea why I panicked like that, not when it’s just Phobos. There’s nothing scary about Phobos, nothing wrong about what he was trying to do to me. I shouldn’t have panicked like that.

“Sorry,” I say again. Calmer now, and I whisper it at him.

He shrugs. “Fifty percent chance I’m too drunk to remember this tomorrow, if it makes you feel any better.”

Laughter shakes from me like broken glass, and I bite at my lip to stop it. He just smiles, so pleased with himself for it, so unabashedly gloating with his expression that I feel even calmer, even more mystified that I got so panicked because Phobos is so incredibly someone that I want to be with like this.

“Thanks for stopping,” I say, whispering again.

For a half-second I see something flinch over Phobos’ expression. Something that horrifies me, because of how it horrifies him. He plasters a drunken smile over it and sounds so incredibly forced as he says lightly, “No problem.”

I can’t turn on my side easily, but I can turn my head toward the wall. It’s a lot of guilt and shame churning around in my stomach, a lot of cold and hot flashes of being so embarrassed and hating myself for everything -- for feeling this way, for having panicked, for shouting at Phobos to stop. Of all things, stop _. Stop._

I scrunch my eyes closed, feel my mouth flattened into a grimace. I can’t believe this is happening, I can’t believe how incredibly awkward and awful this is, how utterly terrible and tense I’ve made things. Oh, I can’t ever look at Phobos again now. I’m lying in his bed, too, I’ve got him trapped in this room with me.

Phobos’ fingers comb through my hair. “Ethos? Ethos… it’s okay, really. I'm pretty drunk, and you just got out of medical, don't worry about it. Tell you what. On the count of three, we’ll both pretend to be silly little schoolgirls with crushes and say ‘yes’ if we like the other person, okay?”

Laughter huffs from between my clenched jaw. “I do like you.”

“That wasn’t on the count of three.” Even though I’m not looking, I can hear the smile in Phobos’ pretty, breathless little voice. He sounds half-serious, half-teasing as he says, “I like you, too, Ethos. Even though you’re a weird little shit.”

I laugh again, the noise startling away from me like a big flock of birds taking wing. I open my eyes and turn to look at Phobos, so I can see the smile I expect. “I’d rather be weird than stupid.”

“Good choice,” he says. He starts to bend toward me like for a kiss and then stops, straightens. He looks over at Deimos’ empty bed.

I catch his hand before he can get up from the bed. I don’t exactly know how to word it, what to say, how the hell to explain that I want Phobos to sleep with me without actually sleeping with me -- at least, not tonight, not now, not with him drunk and me panicked, hurt, a total fucking idiot.

I’m so grateful that Phobos doesn’t need any further explanation than just the way I’ve caught his hand and pulled him close. He bends toward me again so we can kiss, so much soft sweetness in the kiss.

I shift further toward the wall, and Phobos curls up on the edge of the bed beside me with his tablet. He gets to where he can hold the tablet in one hand and play at his fingers through my hair with the other, so it’s nice, it’s so incredibly nice.


	26. Chapter 26

This time when I wake up to the feel of tickling fingers and slow-moving lips against my neck, I know better than to start screaming. It’s Phobos, I know that without opening my eyes or stirring to feel at him like he’s feeling at me. Just lazily, just softly, his hand idle against my shoulder and his face pressed close so that his breath tickles, his nose pokes at me.

He’s half-asleep, pale lashes curved down in such a soft, pretty expression. I shift my head some to look at him better, and I’m glad he’s asleep so I can watch him like this. The room is dark except for the glow of Phobos’ tablet screen. He always falls asleep reading and leaves it on all night, or maybe he’d leave it on all night even without reading before bed. I’m not sure, and it’s a strange thrill that goes through me at the idea that I might start to find out these things about him.

Or, am I? Surely I am. We said as much to each other last night with all that kissing, with how I told him I liked him. Silly schoolgirls with crushes, as he put it, and I smile at the memory. I hope he wasn’t too drunk that he’s forgotten that.

His lashes flutter and then open. I see the slow confusion as he takes note of the way he’s curled into me, but then he glances up to find me watching him. Phobos gives me sleepy smile. Warm, sweet, nothing catty or mean about it because he’s not awake enough to get his defenses up.

“Hello,” he says. He just has to say something.

I smile and say back, “Hi.”

Phobos sits up slow and stretches his arms with a yawn. He looks at the panel to check the time. “What a good little alarm clock you are.” He chuckles and then bends down to kiss me, so sweet and soft, so it’s just like last night and I know he remembers everything, the good and the bad.

Phobos slips from the bed and whisks toward the bathroom with a hum. “I’m showering! Feel free to join me.” He turns with a teasing wink and then laughs again before disappearing inside.

I push myself upright with a lot of wincing on account of my ribs and need to breathe deep, a hand against my side. It hurts, but medical told me to do it to help strengthen up and heal things, and Cain told me the same thing last night in such a brash, bossy way. After I’m done, I look at the closed bathroom for a long time before deciding to peeking inside.

“Phobos…?”

“Hello!” he calls over the sound of the spray. “Come on in!”

I get only a small glance of pale skin, sleek wet hair, shampoo lather gliding along, and then I’m staring at the floor with so much heat in my cheeks. “Just going to wash up.” Mumbling, that’s straight up mumbling, as I shuffle to the sink and carefully get a washcloth wet without getting any water on my bandages.

From the shower comes a lot of humming and under-his-breath singing, which is as nice to listen to as anything else Phobos does with that pretty, airy voice of his. The water cuts off while I’m still at the sink scrubbing my forehead and cheeks in lieu of an actual shower, and then Phobos is sliding close wrapped up in a white towel and nothing else. He slips up next to me and sets his wet fingers over the unhurt parts of my forearm.

“Hello,” he says again, because he just has to say something.

“Hi,” I say back. I glance over with a smile, glad he’s got on that towel, but I keep my gaze focused on his face rather than risk temptation anyway.

Phobos smiles and gets another towel to fluff his hair. “Need a hand with that?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Okay.” He loops the second towel around his neck and grins at me, just watching me, like he can’t believe I’m standing there even though I am. He hums softly and caresses his fingers over my arm again before flouncing -- there is no word for it other than flouncing -- back into the room. “I’ll walk you to breakfast!” He shouts to be heard through the closed door. “Hurry up! Get dressed!”

“You’re the one naked!”

“Not for long!”

I set the washcloth aside and dry my face some before going out into the room as well, so we don’t have to shout at each other. I’m ready to look everywhere except at Phobos, but fortunately he’s already half-dressed and working on the other half. He’s seated on the bed to tug on his socks, and he gestures at me to sit.

“I’ll get you into your boots,” he says. He does just that once I’m sitting, and then likewise helps me back into my uniform jacket. “You look less blown-to-pieces all bundled up like this. I’m glad your face didn’t get shredded up or anything awful like that.”

I laugh some. “Me too. Although, maybe if I lost an eye they’d pair me back with Praxis.”

Phobos tilts his head some and then offers both his hands to help me up from the bed. “You liked being partnered off with Praxis that much?”

I shrug. “He’s nice.”

“Hmm,” hums Phobos. It’s a doubtful sound, maybe a bit of an agreement, I’m not sure what he means with it.  

We leave together and ride the lift to the cafeteria. I get a tray balanced in one hand, but Phobos takes it from me with a bossy air of fussing and playful name-calling. He sets it back snipping, “You’ll just drop it everywhere and make a huge mess.” My breakfast goes onto his tray and then he carries everything over to a table.

“I’m not entirely helpless,” I protest. “I can still use my hand some, see?” I wiggle the unbroken fingers and thumb at him to demonstrate.

“What an accomplishment,” Phobos says dryly. “I’ll get right on engraving your participation trophy.”

He can’t stay quiet long, especially not once more people start showing up to eat. “Ha, look at Abel’s walk of shame. He’s got a hickey again. Cain’s so mouthy, I’m not surprised he’s the same way with fucking. I bet he’s trash at it, too, I bet he’s one of those lays that just thinks his dick is so great that it’s an honor to get it inside you so he doesn’t even have to do any work.”

I don’t want to turn around to look at Abel, except I do -- and I have to bite my lip against giggling before I turn back to Phobos. “You’re awful,” I tell him. “Abel’s nice.”

“Abel’s a prat,” Phobos says. “He’s stuck-up and a suck-up. He’s the worst. Literal worst.”

“He’s nice.”

Phobos sticks out his tongue at me. “You’re nice,” he says accusingly, sounding mean about it. But there’s a smile to it, a bright-eyed teasing, and his foot nudges up against mine under the table.

Even though I don’t have to go to the briefing that morning I do anyway, because it isn’t like Keeler’s going to yell at me for it, although he does tell me to take it easy in a tone that’s mostly a warning.

I don’t argue with him, promise him I will, and then prove to him I will by sitting quietly next to Phobos while he frowns and curses over one of the screens. Deimos’ arm is out of the sling, out of its splinted wrap, and they’re on their last days of rest orders, so later I go with Phobos out to the hanger to work on the Equinox. I sit in the navigator’s seat while Phobos and Deimos argue over everything trivial while agreeing on what’s important. Them arguing is mostly a lot of Phobos complaining to the back of Deimos’ head and occasionally receiving a glare or other long look in return. 

It’s a nice way to spend my day, even if I do end up apparently asleep inside the Equinox. Phobos has to wake me up, teases me he’ll launch me out into space if I don’t wake up and find a better place to nap. It’s a nice day that I spend following Phobos around everywhere, a nice night where I tell Deimos to stay in the room, where Phobos kisses me before we go to sleep and kisses me again when we wake up.

Lots of nice things like that, following Phobos around and sometimes falling asleep in the middle of the day because I’m still hurt. Able to walk around and take care of myself but not fully healed, still tired and sore and needing lots of rest, lots of times that Phobos and I kiss because it’s nice, it feels so right to kiss Phobos.

He doesn’t try to take off my clothes again, or even put his hands anywhere other than on my arms or neck or back, everything above the waist, just us kissing because I panicked, because I don’t try to touch him anywhere except above the waist, don’t try to get under his clothes even though he’s nothing but unhurt, pale, perfect skin and so pretty, so sweet, so teasing and fun about everything so it’s not awkward, not awful, it’s just nice and feels right.

And entirely my fault, because I panicked, and I told him all those horrible things so he must know the reason why, and much as that hurts, it’s also one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me. It’s so nice that Phobos doesn’t ask me about it, doesn’t mention it, smiles and teases me and skips around humming like he also thinks this is nice, that he’s not disappointed or upset, he doesn’t get pushy or mad at me, doesn’t tell me I’m being unreasonable.

So it’s a lot of that, a lot of nice, until one night when it isn’t so nice, when I wake gasping to find Phobos shaking me and pleading, “Hey, wake up. Wake up, get up, be awake -- come on.”

And even though I know it’s Phobos, even though I know I’m awake, I still start shrieking so it’s a lot of not-nice because Deimos is suddenly there to throw Phobos away from me. Tosses him right out of the bed and onto his ass on the floor, because I woke up shrieking even though Phobos was just trying to be nice. I was being loud and he wanted to shut me up nicely, I shouldn't have screamed like that.  

Deimos stands there in the glow of the tablet screen -- Phobos always sleeps with it on, whether or not he reads before bed -- and Deimos doesn’t even look all that awake himself as he puts a wide-eyed question between me and his navigator. He has to see that we're clothed, all my clothes are in place, we're just rumpled with sleep and wide awake because of me.

“Fuck!” Phobos yelps from the floor. “What the fuck!”

I cover my mouth with my hand, bite down on my knuckles and then burst into apology. “Sorry! Oh, Phobos, I’m sorry -- Deimos, it’s okay, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

Phobos picks himself up and glares at his fighter. Deimos turns his head between us and starts to look embarrassed, because I don’t think he was all that awake either when this all turned awful because of me. He must have just woke up to me shrieking and reacted, which makes me wonder if he wasn’t dreaming something awful, too.

“Ethos, shut up,” Phobos snaps, because I’m still blubbering my apologies. “Shut up, it’s fine. It’s fine.” He sounds so mean because he’s scared, he doesn’t want to hear me apologize anymore but he isn’t mad, it just scared him to get tossed out of bed. I hope Deimos didn’t hurt him, but he doesn’t look hurt.

“It’s fine,” Phobos says again, so much softer than before. He rakes back his hair and then sighs, deep and heavy, his thin shoulders squaring.

I see the exact moment he decides not to snip at Deimos. He just stalks past Deimos to the bed and shoots him a look of challenge, like the fighter’s going to toss him again for sitting next to me on his bed, where I’ve slept every night since getting out of medical, even if I asked Deimos to stay in the room.

Deimos shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says.

Phobos stares at him for it and then sniffs all huffy and mean. “Fine. It’s fine.” He slips his arm around me and then asks quietly, “Right?”

I nod quickly and put my arm around Phobos in return, so Deimos looks even more embarrassed before slinking back to his own side of the room. We all settle back down into our beds, because even though we’re all awake because of me it’s still the middle of the night, so we might as well pretend to get more sleep.

Phobos brushes his fingers through my bangs as we lie close together. “You okay?” he whispers.

“Bad dream,” I whisper back.

He huffs softly. “Well I should hope that’s not how you react to good dreams.” Phobos smiles, but the gesture doesn’t stick for long. He curls into me, because I have to sleep on my back to avoid crushing my healing ribs, and sets his lips into my shoulder. “Want to talk about it?”

I shudder. “No.”

The nightmare’s already fading, so it’s just shadows and terror, nothing distinct, but I’m sure it was the maintenance passages of the Sleipnir or getting dragged off my top bunk or any other terrible thing I don’t want to talk about.

Phobos is quiet for a long time, so quiet that I think he might be asleep except I know he isn’t. His fingers trace idle patterns on my forearm. “Is there anything I can do?” he asks.

Soft, his voice is so soft, nothing mean or catty about it, no teasing to it. He’s so earnest and sincere, so hesitant to ask -- scared of getting rejected, vulnerable because I make him that way, because he’s as scared to have me say yes as he is to have me say no, but he wants to ask anyway. He wants to offer this, and I know what he’s really trying to ask, trying to offer, because he doesn’t just mean the nightmare so much as what caused it, all those horrible things I told him that make it so we just kiss nice all the time and don’t do anything else.  

I’m honest, I’m so painfully honest, I can’t be anything other than honest for him. “I don’t know.”

I feel the smile his lips press into my shoulder. “Fair enough,” he says. “Well, I’ll try not to be stupid about it at least.”

“You’re doing a great job at that, surprisingly.”

I’m the one who gets him to laugh, soft and startled like he didn’t expect me to make a joke about it, didn’t expect me to be able to joke about this. “Do I get a participation trophy?” Phobos lifts his head up with a grin, eyes so pretty blue-green bright in the faint glow of the tablet screen.

So I kiss him, lift my head up as well and turn toward him, prop up on my elbow to kiss him in ways that are nice, sweet, growing heated the longer we kiss. Phobos cups the back of my neck and pushes his fingers into my curls in ways that don’t snag, he never snags or pulls my hair no matter how tangled it is, how coarse it gets, his fingers are always so smooth and elegant as they push through my hair.

We kiss until I’m the one who slips my hand under the waistband of the thin cotton shorts that Phobos is wearing. He wants to say something, he just always has to say something, so it’s just this strange sound he makes that isn’t anything at all. He’s almost silent, can’t be quiet even though Deimos is across the room.

He shifts closer, oh, he curls toward me but not too close. He doesn’t put his hands anywhere except in my hair, on my shoulder. His delicate slim hands tremble against my shoulder as he caresses the places he’s found on me that don’t hurt, where I’m not bandaged or skittish.

My hand’s steady like it’s caressing the glow of the panel, all those times I coaxed my ship to all kinds of reckless things. I’m being reckless now, feeling Phobos’ stiff cock and kissing him like this, coaxing him with my hand like this. His fingers curl and tighten but he’s not pulling, not pushing. So I push and pull at him, get him to gasping, he’s being so quiet but still not silent, he just has to use that pretty airy voice.

He sucks in a breath because I’m still being reckless, still moving my steady hand, but his hands are just on my shoulder, curling so smoothly into my hair. His hips shiver and flex as he curls his legs near to mine, but when I shift away toward the wall he stops. I don’t have to say anything, he just stops. We can keep kissing so it’s nice, he doesn’t try to get any closer even though we are very close already.

He kisses shakily at my throat and whispers, _Ethos_ , like it’s my name, my real name, so I have to whisper back, “It’s Aidan.”

“Oh,” he gasps, distinct and sharp with the sound. He kisses me and I kiss him back, move a little closer and slip one pudgy knee between his thighs. In the glow of the tablet screen he’s just all this pretty pale perfect, a white shadow beside me as I shift our bodies together, press my hips close against his.

Phobos shivers and doesn’t say anything, but I can tell he wants to, even though I’m still kissing him so it makes him gasp, hum, curl his fingers through my curls. He stays like that, doesn’t move at all except to kiss me back and touch me where it doesn’t hurt, where it’s nice. Just him being pretty and nice, so nice, I think I might love him forever for being this nice.

Finally he has to say something, he can’t stay this quiet for long, he has to say something and what he whispers to me is, “Please, Aidan. Oh, please, yes.”

All gasping and sweet, so pretty and nice, I don’t even know what to do but this feels right, so right to move our bodies together like this, just together, my hand around him and all this white cloth between us, we’re still in our clothes. My steady hands in all this glow moving our bodies together, being close, so it’s nice.

My chest feels tight, everything hurts, I press close to Phobos and don’t even know what to do with my body besides this but I want to be closer to him, I want to do something nice for him because he’s so nice to me. I’ll love him forever for being this nice to me.

So that’s what he gets from me, that’s the only thing I know to say, the only thing I know to do, I don’t know at all what to do with someone this nice except love them so I just say, “I love you.”

It’s wet through my fingers, slick and sleek, Phobos melts into me with a hitched sound because I think both of us might be crying. He kisses me, my cheeks are wet, I think his are too, it’s wet between us, between my fingers, between all this cloth.

He’s silent, so silent, I hope he’s not scared. I hope I didn’t scare him by blurting it out, but I love him and it’s all I can think to say. It’s all I can think as we move together, my thighs between his, my hand around him, all this white cloth with new white stains, wet white fabric as we kiss. He’s so pretty, so nice, I love him so much and I’m so sorry it hurts because I don’t know what to do now that I love him. I don’t know what to do with this body of mine with someone I love.

His fingers curl into my hair, he cups at my neck, he kisses me so sweetly and both our cheeks are wet, I know he was crying too, it wasn’t just me, our lips are wet as we kiss.

Phobos laughs shakily, so soft and sweet, his breath trembling over my lips as we slowly separate. I have to lie back down I think, my chest is so tight it hurts, I need to catch my breath like Phobos needs to catch his. I roll onto my back and he shifts to lean over me, kisses my cheeks and brushes at my tears, brushes at his own. I keep think he’s going to say something, but he’s so quiet, almost silent, just these brushes of skin and quick breaths.

His fingers run through my bangs, such an achingly familiar gesture, and cups my cheek before kissing me so lingering and sweet. Those pretty pale lashes glide low even as he lifts back to look at me. Then he figures out at last what he’s going to say, because I knew he couldn’t stay silent for long. “Aidan,” he whispers. “I’m Jules. Hi. I love you, too.”

I can’t help it. I actually kind of laugh, just this quick snort of air that dangerously feels like it could turn into a sob if I tried for another. I can’t help it though, it’s just such the right sort of name he should have, something pretty and nice, he says it in just the right way, fucked-stupid and sweet.

I kiss him again, bump my hurt hand against his face because the steady one’s wet. He kisses me back and then slips from the bed. He holds out his hands to help me, doesn’t seem to mind that it’s wet when he holds my hand and pulls me close. We kiss again on our feet, then again inside the bathroom, we keeping coming together to kiss because neither of us knows what to say or do besides that.

He gets into the shower, and I stand at the sink, so it’s like our mornings except it’s night. He doesn’t hum or sing under his breath, since we should be quiet for Deimos, although I really doubt he’s asleep. I pretended to be asleep enough for him that I’m not all that sorry, I’m not sure if I should be sorry. I look at my red-rimmed eyes in the mirror and wonder if I should be sorry.

I brush at my cheeks and glance over at the shower, take a long terrible peek at Phobos’ perfect pale skin, all those lean little muscles. He’s shapely, so pretty, his legs look strong because he’s quick, I know he’s quick, he has such delicate ankles and feet. He is just all these graceful lines, these pretty sweeps, so much pink and pretty, so much pale and perfect.

Phobos catches me watching him, catches me standing there staring, and he smiles so sweet before turning around to wash the shampoo from his hair, so happy and relaxed and not the least bit mad or upset so I don’t think I have to be sorry but I don’t know, I just don’t know and I’m so sorry for it.

I say it anyway, I can’t help it. I don’t know what to do other than whisper, “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

His hands stop moving through his hair. I’ve scared him with it, I know I’ve scared him with it, because he goes so perfectly quiet and still like Phobos is never quiet and still. He’s lively and talkative, chatty and eager, so dramatic about everything so it’s fun, it’s funny, I’m so sorry that I’ve made this awkward and awful, that I am so awkward and awful.  

I’m so sorry so I just have to do it, I just have to I sob, “I’m so sorry,” and it is so so awful and awkward because I can’t stop sobbing or saying I’m sorry.

Phobos slips into the glass with a wet thud, stumbling and shoving to open the shower. He leaves on the spray and gets water everywhere, it’s wet, he’s wet as he brushes at my bangs, my cheeks, as he says desperately, “It’s okay!”

He’s so scared because I’ve started to sob, but he can’t tell me to shut up, he wants to be nice. He doesn’t know what to say but he just has to say something. “Hi,” he says. “Hi, Aidan, it’s okay. It’s okay, honey, you don’t have to be sorry.”

He doesn’t even know why I’m sorry, or maybe he does because of all those horrible things that I said to him, all that terrible honesty. Phobos is naked, he’s wet, he’s shaking and scared as he cups at my cheeks and kisses me sweetly, frantic to stop my apologies and tears with his pretty pink lips, and I love him so much that I’m so so sorry.

“That was perfect,” he says. He’s going to try pleading me quiet again. “You’re perfect, Aidan, this is perfect. I love you, really, please stop crying.”

And I do, because he’s being so nice about it. I scared him by crying because I don’t think he knows what’s wrong, he doesn’t think anything is wrong. It felt right to him like it felt right to me, even if all I did was move our bodies together. Even though I couldn’t have him touch me, couldn’t take off my clothes, he doesn’t think that was wrong so I don’t think he knows why I’m sorry.

“Hi,” he says again. “There you go. It’s okay. That was great, and you’re great. Gold medals all around, okay?” He kisses me again, on my cheek, and strokes his fingers through my bangs. “Okay?” he asks again, looking worried and scared.

I nod quickly and slap some sense into my too-round cheeks, my too-wet cheeks because it’s embarrassing now to have cried like that. “No, um, I’m okay. I’m --”

About to say sorry, but I have to stop myself with a swallow.

I swallow again and put my arm around Phobos, even though he’s wet, he’s not wearing anything but pretty pale skin. I pull him against me even though it hurts, my chest gets tight, my heart aches behind my bruised and beaten ribs. I want to say that I’m sorry, because he’s so pretty and nice, I love him so much.

“I love you,” Phobos whispers, like he’s read my mind. Like he just has to say something, like maybe he’s been wanting to say it all those times he was quiet before. “This is perfect, and you’re perfect. Please don’t be sorry.”

He knows why I’m sorry. I realize abruptly that he knows. It’s because of that horrible honesty, all those terrible things. I hear it in his pretty breathless voice, that airy sweet voice, I hear exactly how much he means what he says, how earnest and vulnerable he is begging me so sweetly not to be sorry. He knows exactly why I’m trying to apologize, so I can believe him when he says I don’t have to be sorry.

“Okay,” I say. “I’m okay. Um, thanks.”

“No problem,” he says. Relieved, smiling, and he teases me with, “You should be grateful I love you. I’m a hell of a catch.”

It’s more of a sob than a laugh, more of a laugh than a sob, I give him a playful push toward the shower and say, “My bandages are all wet thanks to you.”

“Well I got all wet because of you, so it’s a fair trade,” he retorts. He turns under the water with a soft chuckle and hurriedly finishes washing up.

We return to bed in fresh clothes, fresh bandages, there’s not much of the night left so I don’t really sleep and I don’t think Phobos does either. It’s just nice to lie together close and warm under the blankets, nice to lie with our bodies close.


	27. Chapter 27

In the morning Deimos keeps trying to look at me, keeps trying not to look at me. I’m positive he wasn’t asleep because he keeps trying to look at me without letting me catch him at it. He’s just worried, he doesn’t want to embarrass me, I pretended to be asleep all those times so he’s trying to do the same but it’s still so awful and awkward all the same.

Phobos is quieter than usual, louder than usual -- snapping at everyone and everything while trying too hard not to seem that anything’s different, that anything happened last night we need to be awkward about with Deimos. That nothing has to change about the way Phobos kisses me in the morning and kisses me just before we leave the room. He holds my hand in the lift, carries my tray to the table, and gossips such catty mean things but his heart’s not in it, he smiles aren’t right.

Something’s wrong with Phobos, and I think it’s my fault. I know it’s my fault. It has to be my fault, because I'm so fucking weird about everything, so awkward and awful. Phobos is acting wrong because I’m acting wrong, I’m the one being too quiet, acting weird. I'm the one not smiling when he teases, not laugh at the funny ways that he gossips. I'm the one acting so wrong, looking so wrong. 

It doesn’t help that my fighter comes over to sit with us. He waits until Deimos and Cain are both gone, when it’s just Phobos beside me because I’m taking too long, poking at my food so listless and slow.

My fighter sits across from us on the mess hall table and flashes us a sly smirk. “How much longer are you on rest orders?”

“Fuck off,” snaps Phobos. “Don’t you have other ass on this station to be seduce-raping? Get lost before I start squealing right here in the middle of breakfast. See how command likes it when you've got two navigators screaming foul.”

My fighter grips his fork much too tight as he glares across the table at us. “Just answer the fucking question, Pathos. Rest orders -- how long?”

I set my hand on Phobos’ leg under the table, because I’m scared he’s going to pop off with something so snippy that fork will come across at us. “I don’t know. Another week at least,” I say. “At least another week.”

He picks up his tray and leaves, he leaves it at that, he doesn't make any threats or tell me to come to the room. My shoulders sag, the breath leaves me in a rush, Phobos moves closer and leans his shoulder into me. He talks without saying anything important, just something silly about Abel’s hair, something catty and mean in a soft sweet whisper, something he says to make me smile, but I just sit there shivering.

I’m the one acting wrong and I know it, because of the way Phobos is acting wrong, trying too hard to act like nothing wrong. We kiss that night, but I don’t put my hand on him again, I don’t move our bodies together. We just kiss, so it’s nice and sweet, and then I turn my face to the wall since I have to be on my back, I have to let my ribs heal. I can’t curl on my side to hide.  

Phobos reads on his tablet, acts like nothing’s wrong -- doesn’t ask if we can kiss again, if I’ll put my hand on him or let him undress me. He's never gotten pushy like that, always keeps it so nice, he said I had nothing to be sorry about and meant it. Phobos reads and gasps at the good parts, hums at the best parts, trails his fingers over my arm a little but it’s nice, so nice. It feels so right, like nothing's wrong. 

In the morning things are better, Phobos acts a little less wrong because I smile some when he teases, say he’s awful when he gossips, and kiss him deeply when we’re alone in the lift. I set my hand on his hip just briefly, because we won’t be alone long, but I think I’ll ask Deimos to come in late, see if he’s okay coming in late so we can be alone for a bit. Maybe ask Phobos how he would think about setting the mattresses together when we're done, set them together on the floor like an invitation. 

After lunch Phobos ditches me with Abel. There’s no other way to describe it, no other way to take it, because Phobos is a terrible liar. I know exactly what he’s trying to do when he whines at Abel enough that I jump to his defense. 

“Well fine, if Miss Perfect’s so smart then fine. You figure it out. Show Pathos how this is done,” Phobos huffs. He jumps to his feet to let Abel take his spot at the console.

I know he’s being weird because he’s always called me by the wrong task name, never used my new task name, I think Phobos is acting wrong again when he leaves me there with Abel. Waltzes right out of the room trying to be sneaky, but he's such a terrible liar and looks so guilty, so wrong.

He could be going anywhere, doing anything, but something about it is so wrong that I hurry Abel along almost to the point of rudeness. I make up an excuse that medical needs to see me and then I have to find Phobos, have to know where he went, what he thinks he’s doing because something about this is so so wrong.

Luna helps me out, tells me he saw Phobos walking to see the commander, going into Cook’s office. I feel very silly, because I was worried Phobos wanted to go into the fighter base again, wanted to go snip and snap at my fighter. Which is silly, I’m being silly, Phobos isn’t a fighter like Deimos. He’s feisty and tough but wouldn’t go picking a fight.

I go back to sit with Abel, who Phobos was at least sweet enough to wrangle into keeping me company. I think I’ll just wait for Phobos here, in this white bright room, talk to Abel about engine configurations and nothing in particular, just everything nice, but everything still feels wrong the longer Phobos doesn’t return.

We’d been going everywhere together, Phobos letting me sit beside him at meetings, meals, and briefing. Sitting in the Equinox, him sitting in my lap sometimes, careful not to put any weight into my ribs, balancing all of his slim strength over me to test out the engines, laughing so it’s fun, so funny. Going everywhere with Phobos like I'm Porthos, right up against his side everywhere we go, it’s so weird of me to miss Phobos even just for a few hours. He probably just wanted to be alone for a bit, to do just one thing without me trailing after him.

Abel walks with me to dinner, and Phobos meets us there. He’s too sharp, too mean, something's so wrong. His wispy soft hair is damp like he’s just been in the shower, and when he turns to pick up a tray I see it. I see the little red mark on his neck, a mouthy wet bite like all the hickeys he teases Abel for having, there's a hickey on Phobos' neck and I just don’t know what to do.

I didn’t do that to him. I know I didn’t do that to him. Someone else sucked that mark on his neck because Phobos certainly couldn’t put it there himself and I certainly didn’t put it there. Oh gosh, oh damn, oh fuck who put that red mark on Phobos’ neck?

Was it my fighter? Did Phobos go find him after all, go to snip and snap only to get caught in rough jaws, shaken and made raw? Phobos does look shaky, he looks pale and mean, all his defenses up because he’s so so scared. He can’t look at me, can’t let me see all the fear in those bright blue-greens, how he's so scared. He doesn’t want me to say anything about his red-rimmed eyes, cold pink nose and fresh-sobbed cheeks.

And as we’re sitting there eating I know he knows. He knows I can see the hickey, he knows things are wrong, he knows I want to ask about it, and that’s why he’s scared. He doesn’t want to lie and knows that he can't. He's so scared I'm going to ask about why he's so shaky and wrong, so pale and mean, why there's a red mark on his neck that I didn't put there. I don’t know what to do, so it’s awkward and awful but for once it’s not entirely my fault.

That night it’s just the same, so wrong and strange but we pretend it’s fine, we go to bed early because I asked Deimos to come in late, I already asked him before Phobos showed up looking wrong, showed up looking shaky and pale.  

He kisses me goodnight but doesn’t read on his tablet, just sets it aside still glowing. Phobos turns onto his side and faces away from me, curls on his side tight to hide. I turn my face into his hair, nuzzle sweetly at the soft strands. I can feel him so tense, so scared. 

I shift to kiss his neck, I put my hand on his side. I trace my fingers up his arm and feel him shiver beneath my touch. It turns him toward me some, he lets me get through his defenses so I kiss at his shoulder, try to get him to turn toward me even more. “Hello,” I whisper to him. I feel like I should say something, I want to say something just to get him to say anything.

Phobos presses his mouth into a tight trembling line before saying back, “Hi.”

I slide my hand over his chest, kiss at his neck again over that red mark. That little red target I need to take down, because Phobos is scared I’m going to be mad about something. He doesn’t want to say, doesn’t want to talk about it -- and if there’s anything I can understand and sympathize with it’s not wanting to talk about something horrible.

So I just kiss him, kiss at his neck and trembling lips. I kiss him so it’s nice, so it’s sweet, so it starts to burn a slow-growing heat. Phobos dissolves into tears as I kiss him and kiss him, keep kissing him even while he cries. I don’t say a word because he doesn’t want to talk for once,  he can’t say anything and needs me to be okay with that, needs me to understand.

If there’s anything I can understand it’s this, if there’s anything I can be nice about it’s little red marks that make him scared, make him cry. I'll love him forever, he has to know I meant it when I told him that, he has to know what I mean with all these kisses. He doesn’t have to be scared, he should know it’s okay, if there's anything I'll understand it's this.

I kiss Phobos and nudge my knee between his thighs again, put my hand down into his shorts. I put our bodies together with all our clothes still in place, all my clothes still in place and Phobos clinging to my neck, he doesn’t reach to touch me like I’m touching him. He keeps his hands on my neck as I rub into him and move us together so it’s friction and heat, so we both get to groaning, forget about being scared and crying.

I push my face into Phobos’ neck, pant against him like he pants against me, because this feels so right and so good, his body is so pretty and sweet. He’s so nice and I love him, he doesn’t need to be scared. If he never tells me I’ll still love him, I won’t care. I just want to be with him, be so close to him like this, I love him so much.

When I tug at his waistband he lets me, doesn’t say a word except tight breathless gasps. I push and pull at the fabric. He wiggles his hips and shivers his thighs to help me strip all that white cloth down to his knees, his calves, until his nimble little toes pinch and tug to get his underwear off entirely. 

He keeps his hands tight around my neck, keeps his face hidden, but he whispers, “Oh please,” so sweet and so vulnerable, so breathtakingly sweet that it hurts my chest, sends my heart into pounding.

My hand’s not so steady at this, not so confident or certain as I press and hesitate. Phobos brushes his fingers over my cheeks, taps them against my lips to offer, to question. He’s moving so slow and careful, so hesitant because he’s scared too, we’re both scared but I don’t think it matters. It doesn’t matter at all because it feels so right to be wicked like this, to be reckless and work my tongue over Phobos’ slim little fingers, to suck and wet his fingers like he asked with those soft taps. 

I put my hand on his cock, his stiff aching cock, because Phobos slips that fresh-sucked wet finger into his body and moans. I bury my face into his neck and bring my hips against his, push my thigh into him. When he feels at my waist as a question, I nod against his throat and kiss that red target once more.

Phobos’ nimble little fingers make quick work of the clasps. He’s slow about pushing the fabric over my hips. He’s scared, braced I’ll say stop, expecting me to say stop, I’ve gone so still against him, so quiet except for ragged-hot breaths against his throat. My hand’s still around his cock but not moving, he’s the only one moving as he slides my pants off slow, he moves so slow because he's waiting for me to say stop. 

I lift my face to his, find him watching me with bright blue-greens in all this glow, the tablet screen glow over his pretty face looking so worried and scared, so eager and earnest, vulnerable all the way through because of me, because he loves me like I love him. I have to say it, I can't help but say it. “I love you,” I tell him. 

I kick and wiggle some to help him, I start to move so he can move faster, push my pants out of the way with a little more confidence. "I love you," he tells me.

Phobos kisses me, hums about it. He kisses me while we start to move again, our hips rolling together, building friction together with all this bare skin, all this pretty pale skin and bandages. My hand moving, his hand moving, those slim fingers of his between his legs for me, doing something I'm not sure I can do right, not sure I know how to do right, never had done right to me but that's okay, that's not what I'm going to think about. I just think how much I love Phobos, how much this feels right. 

I push his thighs apart with my knees, it’s my pudgy knees nudging open his slim pretty thighs. It’s awkward because of my ribs, the burnt and broken parts of me, all those shattered things about me where it’s awkward.

I rub my cock against the inside of Phobos’ thigh, roll our bodies together and hesitate, not sure I know how to do this right even though it feels right. I think I might jump out of my skin when he touches me, when Phobos’ slim little hand caresses my hip, my upper thigh, moves so slow again like a question, just waiting for me to stop him, he must be scared I’m going to start shrieking or worse, but I need him to help me, I'm not sure I know how to do this right. I nod and kiss his throat, kiss that red mark, that little red target. I kiss him so he knows it's okay, it feels right.

“Oh,” I gasp. I’m the one who gets breathless, whose voice goes airy and light. Phobos’ hand guides our bodies together, sets my cock into place so I push into tight heat, such a strange and good feeling, a feeling that’s so right and good. 

“Oh, no,” is what I moan first. Then gasping, “No, no --”

Oh my gosh, what a silly thing to moan, what a weird thing to do, at least I didn’t moan _stop_ and that’s a horrible thing to think so I won't think it. This feels so good, so right, but my weird soft voice said  _no_ and Phobos gets so silent and still, becomes so very scared.

I move into him, shift my hips so that he gasps, so that his fingers curl against me with an eager whine. I need to him to know I didn’t mean that, I don’t know why I moaned _no_ because this feels so good, so right. I keep moving into him and whisper, “It's good,” in such a strange husky moan. He has to know that, to forget the weird thing that I said first, I didn’t mean it like that, I don't want this to stop.

He has to know I like this, I love him, so I kiss at his ear and whisper, “You feel good.”

“Fuck,” Phobos breaths. His pale lashes flutter as he twitches and moans, because I’m bringing our bodies together with swift urgency now, moving us together in ways that are right, that feel so good.

I kiss at his neck, I kiss the spot where he’s scared, I kiss at him with all this desperate heat, all this built-up urgency. It’s a good thing I already decided I’d love Phobos forever. I don’t care about this silly red mark, I’m not going to think about that. I think about how much I love him, how nice and sweet he is, how much I adore the pink flush to his cheeks and the fucked-stupid glaze of those pretty blue-greens.

It’s so good to move in and out of Phobos like this, to move into him and feel him all around me, his hands over my neck again and we’re so close. We couldn’t possibly be closer because I’m moving inside him, this pretty and perfect person I love, a navigator named Phobos, a nice man named Jules, this person I love so perfect and sweet.

“Oh, Ethos, oh Aidan,” he gasps. He strokes at my hair and clutches at me, this feels so right and good, surely he won’t be scared now, he’ll know that I love him and couldn’t possibly be mad about a red mark that scares him.

It’s sticky and wet, slick and sleek, my eyes roll back because it’s so intense, so real, so good and right. I push into Phobos, I groan deep and push hard, he moans so prettily and melts in my arms, melts up against me with all these gasping sweet moans. I love him so much, I have so much love I want to give him, I push our bodies together in ways that feel right.

Afterward we lie still, lie gasping for breath and dazed, everything so intense because we’re both so quiet, we don't know what to say. We kiss with trembling lips and share shaky breaths, lie together quiet and still for a while. Later he gets into the shower, I stand at the sink. I don’t apologize, there’s nothing to say I’m sorry for because I know it was right, it was good. He kisses me, I kiss him back, we get clean and fresh-scrubbed, we go back to bed.

We settle into bed like it’s normal, like nothing happened that needs to be awkward. Like there's no little red mark on his neck, like I’m not lying in bed trembling even though it felt right. We’re going to make it okay, because it felt so right. Phobos curls close against me and holds my shaking hand in both his. Kisses me so sweet, kisses my shoulder, whispers that he loves me so I whisper it back, so neither of us has to be scared.

The next morning it’s quiet, it’s a lot of pretending to be okay and normal. Deimos wants to ask, he gives me lots of long looks, he came in late as requested when we were already asleep, already dressed again for bed and just cuddled together in the bed like always. Like nothing happened, like nothing's different. Deimos wants to ask but doesn’t, so we’re all very quiet but calm. Phobos wants to act nothing is wrong, that nothing has to be wrong, and if it’s anything I can understand it’s wanting things just to be okay when they’re not.

After the briefing that Keeler pulls me aside. We go to command, they tell me I’m being reassigned. They tell me I’m being reassigned, and I must be dreaming. I must be in shock, this must not be real, something awful has happened because I think I’m being told that I’ll be reassigned when the Voltaire docks again in the next few days. I think something so good is happening to me that it can't be real.

I’m being reassigned, they tell me, I’ll be an Ethos again. They’ve decided to bring the Tiberius to replace my poor Pharaon, they’re reshuffling teams, I can’t believe this is happened that Praxis is going to be back. They're going to make me an Ethos again, I'm going to have a nice fighter named Praxis reassigned to me. It’s all kinds of sudden excitement, all kinds of staring where my eyes just get wide and I can’t say a word. I don’t want command to realize how excited I am, how much this thrills me. How I want to go running the second they dismiss me, but I manage to walk slow like I’m calm.

I find Deimos with Phobos, I find them both in the hanger. They’re working on the Equinox, Deimos is under the ship with Phobos inside shouting bossy-nice directions. Deimos sees me running up with my best quick-walk, something not so subtle and smooth as when he does it, he sees me running and comes out from under the ship. 

I’m smiling, I’m vibrating with excitement, I can’t wait to tell Deimos and he’s so bewildered by my excitement, my wide eager smile. I snatch at his hands with both mine, I don’t even care that it hurts. I burst it all out in long-heaving gasps that, _Praxis coming back! He’s coming back, he’ll be mine! Oh, Deimos, it’s great -- they’re giving Praxis to me, he’ll be mine again!_

I’m so happy, so happy, I’m going to cry. Deimos is staring, shock-still and staring, his soft grey eyes gone so impossibly wide. I hug him, I don’t care that it hurts, I hug Deimos tight and bounce with a laugh because I’m just so ridiculously too-good-to-be-true happy.

And then I see Phobos leaning out of his ship. I see him watching me with a smile, this very strange sad smile, that red mark on his neck flashing as he pushes back his hair. He calls down, _Congratulations!_ and sounds so sweet, so sad, but maybe it’s just because things last night were so strange, that maybe he’s still scared I’ll be mad. Like I could possibly care about a red mark that scares him, when everything’s going to be so much perfect like this.

 


	28. Chapter 28

I’m too excited to sleep, too excited to sit still, I can’t stop smiling and laughing at everything Phobos says, everything Deimos does, I’m the one humming and singing under my breath in the mornings, everything is so so perfect because Praxis is coming back.

I can’t believe it’s really happening, I must be dreaming, I can’t believe that I’m being reassigned. It’s only a few more days of waiting, a lot of being excited like it’s going to be Christmas. I can’t wait for this fighter of mine, this nice man named Marcus, my Praxis so I can be an Ethos again, I’m so excited and keep forgetting about Phobos, I should be better at remembering about Phobos.

I’m awful, so awful, I’m the worst because the happier and happier I get the sadder and sadder Phobos gets. I catch him crying in the shower, all his jokes are wrong and too mean or too sad. Something is so so wrong with Phobos, and I think it’s my fault.

We kiss at night, we kiss so it’s nice, but Deimos is in the room so I don’t move close to him, I don’t put my hand into his underwear or take off my pants. I just kiss him so it’s nice, so he knows it’s okay, but he looks so sad still, he’s so silent because he’s scared, he can’t say anything to me about it because he’s so scared I’ll be mad.

I try again to tell him it’s okay, I tell him with my body, my steady hand and all those kisses. I roll into him with my thigh, let him grind on me some, pump him deep with my hand until he melts and goes limp with so many breathless, pretty kisses and sighs. It’s wet white fabric again, all our clothes between us, but he looks just as fucked-stupid sweet as before and hums in the shower even if Deimos is supposed to be sleeping.

I wait until we’re alone, until I know what to say, because today’s the day that Praxis comes back and Phobos is so sad. He hummed in the shower and keeps smiling, but his eyes are so heavy, so muted blue-green. Phobos is so so wrong, and it’s my fault.

“Jules?” I catch his hand, let him know it’s serious -- that he should stay a minute, because I sent Deimos away early with a small little look.

Phobos turns to me, so wary and tense, that little mark peeping up over the collar of his jacket, it’s so small and faded now but he’s so scared still I’m going to ask, even though I haven’t and won’t. I won’t ask him, because it doesn’t matter, I don’t want to make him feel sick or scared, shamed or embarrassed, I just want him to know it’s okay, I love him, he doesn’t have to be scared.

But that’s not what I say. I know what to say. I’ve practiced it to myself a hundred times, dozens of times whispering it when I was sure Phobos couldn’t hear, even if we’re always together.

I tell him, “Praxis is just my fighter -- a friend. Just someone nice. He loves Deimos. I don’t love him. I love you.”

I rehearsed it to myself a dozen times, a hundred times, practiced it so perfectly that it sounds fake, it sounds like such a sweet, pretty lie. I’m such a good liar, but I sound like a terrible one when I try to be honest like this. I mean every word so much and practiced it so much that it sounds so fake.

Phobos looks somewhere around my belly button instead of directly at me. I sound like such a liar, so it’s no wonder he sounds sad. “I know,” he says. In such a flat little voice, such a heavy sad voice. It sounds like a lie, it sounds so fake. “I know. I love you, too.”

“But really,” I insist. I can’t have him think I like Praxis, that I could possibly love anyone else as much as I love Phobos. I take his hand in mine. It’s like kissing my cotillion date’s brother, sweet stupid little Thomas Middlebury, that one nice little moment before he said  _never mind_  and ran away.

Phobos is just like that, so flustered and sweet beneath all his fun, oh so funny, catty mean sharpness -- he’s so sharp and tough, fast-flying and quick into any great passion over the silliest things. He’s so so wrong because of me, because I hope he doesn’t think I like anyone as much as I like him. I’d take him as my fighter if I could, or I’d be a Deimos for him. I’d take him as my Praxis, my anything. I never want to be anything other than his, so he has to know that so much, this perfect person I love has to know I love him.

I hold his hand tight so he can’t run away, because I know what I need to say that’s honest and true. “I love you. I’m just excited for the reassignment. To have Praxis as my fighter again. Just - just someone nice. Someone I don’t hate. I - I hate Logo- Lo --” I can’t get out, I choke on the name, it’s not the same fighter just the same task name, but I’m so scared of the memory, so scared of that name -- of him -- even still, and I hate him more than ever for making me this scared. I’ll hate him forever for making me a Pathos, just for being a Logos I’ll hate him.

It pulls Phobos so he pulls at me, he clutches at me, hugs me, buries his slim little fingers into my hair. “I know, honey, I know. You don’t have to be sorry,” he whispers. “I know you love me. I know you don’t love that big ugly dork. Be as excited as you want. Please, be as excited and happy as you want. Be so excited you never cry again, you sweet impossible thing.”

He’s the one crying, he’s telling me not to cry but now he’s the one sobbing so wretched and broken. I’m scared, so scared, because Phobos sounds so sad and I was just trying to be nice. I don’t want to be scared, not of Phobos, so I hug him, I kiss him. I kiss him and say, “I love you. I love you,” so he has to say it back, has to sob it at me because he can’t be quiet for long. He always just has to say something.

And I just have to say something now. I’m the one who can’t be silent any longer, I know he doesn’t want to talk about it but he didn’t listen when I said it the other night with my body. He didn’t understand that I’ll love him forever, no matter what he wants to keep secret. I understand so well about secrets, about telling lies, I’m so fucking honest when I say, “I don’t care what happened. I don’t care what you did.”

It sounds so honest, it sounds so hoarse and deep like my voice only sounded once before, when I told Phobos how good it felt, how good he feels, how good and right it is to be with him. How I love him so much, I’m so honest with that when I say, “I love you.”

“I fucked Cook,” he blurts out. “So you’d get reassigned. I did it. It was me, I did it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He sobs it at me, sounds so broken, I don’t even know what to do because it’s more horrible than I thought, so much more horrible and awful because of me. Because he did it for me, was so fucking stupid to do this for me, to do something so impossibly fucking nice that I’d hate him forever if I didn’t already promise to love him forever.

“Oh,” I say. “Oh, no.”

It’s all I can think to say. I said the same thing to my cotillion date's brother, because I was just so flustered and he looked the same, so I just didn't know what to do because I've always been so awkward and awful, so soft and stupid, silly and weak, pasty-pale freckled and pudgy. I don't know what Phobos loves about me, but he does, so it's awful that I can't think of what to say, what to do. I just stare at him, who knows what on my face because I just don't know what to do about this.

Phobos shudders and sobs, he pushes me away and turns away. He rejects me so I can’t reject him, he doesn’t know what to do besides that, and then he slinks for the door like he’s going to leave. I can’t let him leave, if he leaves then I’ll never know what to say, what to do to get him back. 

I grab at his hand and pull him toward me, say to him -- “Wait. Please, wait.” I don't want him to go, I don't know what to do if he goes, so at least I know I need him to stay. 

He’s so tense, so wary, he lets me get him close, he’s eager to let me get close but he still looks so scared.

“Why would you do that for me?”

Oh, wrong thing to say, wrong way to say it, I’m going to cry because he’s crying, because I said the wrong thing, but I said it so devastated, so utterly shattered and hurt, he has to know I’m not mad. That I love him, I love him so much for it to hurt like this.

“Does it matter?” Phobos sobs softly and brushes his palm into his cheeks, he rubs hard at his eyes. “It was stupid.”

“You’re so stupid,” I agree. Say it in just the right way, even though my cheeks are wet and it hurts, I say it so he’ll know it’s okay.

It works. I say it the right way. He laughs, thick and choking. “I really am. I love you, that’s proof of idiocy enough.”

“You’re such an idiot,” I whisper.

I say it so sweet, so soft. I press my lips to his, kiss him so warm and deep even though our lips are cold and wet. I kiss him so he knows I meant it, I love him, I’ll love him forever even when he’s so stupid it’s sweet.

It’s good I told Deimos to leave the room. I keep kissing Phobos, I kiss him toward the bed. I kiss him and kiss him until we’re dizzy and panting, until I squirm a hand under the waistband of his uniform pants. Phobos’ little fingers make quick work of the clasps, he pushes the white fabric out of the way.

I put my hand on him, I take him in my hand to push and pull, I get him to gasping in such a sweet pretty way, such a breathless and beautiful voice as he gasps, “Ethos! Oh, Aidan!”

He reaches for me, puts his nimble small hands on my pants but I shake my head, flinch with a sharp, ”No,” and mean it.

Phobos snaps his hands away, buries trembling fingers into my hair, needs me to kiss him so he isn’t scared. I keep my hand on him, pump such pretty cries from him to kiss and capture. I love Phobos so much, love the way that he puts his hands over my shoulders, the way he caresses my hair.

I think I know what to do, I think I can do this, I kiss at his lips and his throat. I kiss Phobos’ collar bones and push up his top, push that white fabric aside so I can kiss his pretty pale chest, those perfect pink nubs. Phobos scoots up along the bed so I don’t have to hunch, he pushes his strong, slender thighs open for me to kneel between.

I think I can do this, I got this, it’s so embarrassing that I actually whisper that, whisper, “I got this,” so near his crotch.

I hear Phobos’ pretty tinkling laugh. “Oh, please,” he says.

Smiling, like this is all so fun, so funny, he’s so fun and funny. Bright blue-greens, red-rimmed from crying, but he’s smiling so sweet and looks ready to tease except my hand is shaking against his thigh so he gets quiet, looks serious. Goes quiet and still, braced like I’m going to say stop even though he isn’t moving, I'm the only one moving.

I press my cheek into his cock, nuzzle so that he whines so beautifully, hums like it’s all so nice. And it is nice, it is so nice, my jaw’s clenched tight but it’s nice just to nuzzle and rub my cheek, press my lips where he’s hard. I need to open my mouth but can't, and I don't want him to know how awful that is because I just want it to be nice. He did something foolishly nice for me, so I want to do this foolish reckless nice thing to him but I'm the one scared now, because I don't think I can do this. My hand is shaking against his thigh as I try to rub in ways that are nice on his pale perfect skin. I want to feel his slim, sleek thighs but my hand isn't steady doing this. 

He tries to touch my hair, he tries to skim those pretty little fingers of his through my hair, where he thinks it won’t hurt because I’ve let him do it before.

I jerk back with a gasp, a gasp so sharp it's a shriek, and then I slap a sharp red sting into the pale perfect skin of his hand. He was only trying to be nice but I slap at his hand, I'm so much faster than him so he can't pull away in time. I panic so terribly that I slap his hand for touching me even that little bit, and I am so sorry just as soon as I do it that I don’t even know what to do, I was being weird and know it, I know that was a weird thing to do and it’s weird for me to be whimpering now as I stare at him.

I don't know what to do so much but I'm so impossibly sorry and scared for it because I shouldn't have screamed, I shouldn't have hit him. It hurts so much, it hurts in my chest as I stare at Phobos with my heart pounding hard. 

His eyes are wide, so wide, he’s so horrified but he’s the one who beats me to it, it’s his pretty breathless voice that speaks first. He’s so quick, so incredibly quick. “It’s okay! It’s okay, it’s okay. Oh, oh, honey, I’m sorry I spooked you, I - oh -- I’m sorry.”

He reaches, I let him, I let him clutch at my shoulders and rush me into a hug. He kisses my neck, kisses my cheek, whispers he’s sorry, makes me shut up before I scare him with apologies of my own. He says he's sorry so much because I looked so scared. I told him so much that he knows, he knows that I’m so impossibly sorry and scared that it makes him sorry and scared too, makes it so I don’t have to say sorry or be scared because he’ll say it for me, he'll get that way for me. It makes it so I believe him when he says it’s okay, makes it so it feels good and right like when he gasps at the good parts, cries at the sad parts. I believe him so much when he says it's okay. 

We kiss, we kiss a lot because we both got a little scared. I have to say, “I love you,” so he says it back, so he smiles and kisses me, so he lets me know it’s okay.  

Phobos slips his pants back into place, doesn’t look disappointed about it. He’s never pushy, always so nice. He smiles, kisses me, rubs between my shoulders when I look upset, says so much that it’s okay in all the right silent ways. I believe him so much when he says it’s okay, because he loves me like I love him, I believe him so much.

I have to say something, I wait until we’re at the door and kissing again. I just have to beg him, “Please don’t do it again. Don’t do that kind of thing for me, please. It’s not worth the trouble.”

“Oh, honey,” he says. Smiles, he smiles so teasing and sweet. “You’re worth _so_ much trouble, you have no idea. I’m so crazy stupid in love with you that I’m going to do all kinds of crazy stupid things for you.”

“You’re awful,” I tell him. But I’m smiling, I’m smiling so much that he kisses me, it feels so good and right.

Everything’s so perfect and nice, Phobos winks back when I flash him such a brilliant-happy smile before going to central command, before going to meet my fighter like it’s the first time, so excited like it’s Christmas morning.

I remember seeing him for the first time, for being so intimidated by his eye patch and size, he’s so tall and strong, so much larger than me. That seems so silly now, I should have seen how he looked sad, distracted, not even focused on me. How he was always so polite about looking away, never once came up the ladder to my bunk to be mean, only came up to be nice and wake me until after Deimos, until after I learned he was so so nice. I’ll love him forever for loving Deimos, because Deimos is someone who needs to be loved.

He’s such a nice fighter and now he’s mine all mine -- it’s so hard to be so calm and just smile when he sees me and smiles back. I don’t run at him, don’t throw my arms around him, don’t bounce up and down squealing even though I want to, I want to do all those things so it’s awful and awkward with how I just blush down at my feet.

We stand side-by-side, I manage not to mumble. We get our assignment orders, he gets to put his stuff back in our room, we go stand together in the lift.

That’s when I hug him, I did so well to wait, I push into him for a big happy hug with soft, “Hi! Hi, Praxis! Welcome back!” because I just have to say something, I’m so excited.

My fighter -- this wonderful fighter of mine -- he has his arms lifted out of the hug, he’s standing so stiff. I’ve never hugged him like this, never once put this much of my body against him, he’s so awkward and such a big stupid dork he doesn’t know how to hug me back, doesn’t know what to do with his strong arms other than hold them up like I’m mugging him.

“Hi, Ethos,” he says. He sounds so surprised, so almost wary, unsure like he could possibly be afraid of a silly little navigator like me. He pats at my back and tries not to move too much besides that.

I bounce back from him and laugh, cover my mouth and realize I’m acting so weird. I grin between my fingers and just say, “I missed you. I missed you so much.”

His expression softens, he looks at me so fondly, it’s a strange way that he looks at me but then again I know I’m acting very strange. He says. “I missed you, too. It’s good to be back.”

I bet he missed Deimos more, I’d bet anything that he missed Deimos more, and I shouldn’t be surprised that there’s a dark little shadow waiting, a dangerous and sleek fighter hovering around the door to our room.

The two of them stop at the sight of each other, they’re both frozen for a second before Praxis is moving forward on swift, long strides but Deimos is quick, he’s so quick, he flies forward with a soft cry and is all over my fighter. Deimos clutches at him, claws at his hair, wraps his lean legs around Praxis’ waist and gets so impossibly close as Praxis wraps him tight and says, “Deimos!” in such a happy, bright way.

“Oh, Deimos, oh baby, I missed you,” my fighter says. “I am so glad to see you.” He sounds so hoarse, so incredibly happy but so sad, all that time away hurt, he loves Deimos so much that it makes me just feel so incredibly awkward for standing there watching.

I definitely shouldn’t be here, except here is just the hallway in front of our room. I don’t think it would matter, I’m so very sure they can’t see me, that they don’t hear my soft awkward stammering as I say, “Oh. Oh, no.”

Deimos is shaking, Praxis is smiling, they must both remember where they are because Deimos slowly climbs off him, my fighter gently sets him down with a lingering caress. It makes Deimos turn aside, makes him get shy and prickly, so he scowls and tries to act like his cheeks aren’t wet, that his grey eyes aren’t so incredibly soft and damp. That he isn’t biting down hard on a smile, his fingers aren’t dancing in between Praxis’ like sharp little knives, because Deimos is so incredibly happy he’s embarrassed and will hate us both forever if we point it out to him.

They both look embarrassed, except Praxis is grinning like he doesn’t care who notices. They both glance over at me so that I back away with my hands lifted up in retreat.  

“See you later?” Praxis asks. He’s trying so hard to sound nice and not order me out of the room.

“Sure! Sure, um, yup --” I whirl around and try not to look like I’m running away. They don’t want me in the room for this, they want to be alone. I owe Deimos the use of the room, I’m happy to share my fighter with Deimos, I’m so happy they want to be alone, that they can be together.

I walk through the halls, I walk for the lift. I’ve got a bounce in my step, a hum on my lips, it’s okay that it was awkward. I’m so okay with it being awkward. I’m going to find Phobos and tell him again that I love him, tell him with the shy way I blush at his jokes, tell him by following him everywhere. Ask Deimos to trade me rooms tonight, so I can show Phobos something nice, so we can take our time in case I have to say stop, because it’s so good and right that I know it’s okay.

I walk through the halls to find Phobos, just all these soft silly thoughts in my head, I’m so happy that Praxis is back that it’s so awful of me, it’s so awkward and awful, but I’m actually so grateful for Phobos for being such a reckless idiot. It was so awful of him, so nice of him, he cried so much and looked so scared with that little red mark on his neck. He did something so stupid, so nice, I’m going to love him forever.

It’s all these soft and silly thoughts in my head, all these things that make me hum and feel happy, when a shadow catches my hand, when a growling-snarl says, “There you are,” and spiced-liquor soaked breath washes over my face as a man pulls me close.

I get pulled into shadow, pulled against this strong fighter who isn’t mine anymore, this tall strong man with such a sly smirking wide-mouth, this jerk whose name I don’t even know so how dare he hold me like, put his hands on me where it hurts. There’s no nice thoughts in my head, no soft silly things, just all this anger and fear, I’m so so scared, all these things that I hate and him I hate the most, this black-on-black, this Logos of mine, this man who makes me want to scream.

A hand goes over my mouth, a tight hand over my mouth, muffling the ripping shriek of my voice. I scream and I scream, but it’s an iron tight hand over my mouth. I start to kick and struggle, bite hard with my teeth, I’m going fucking crazy because of all this shadow, the mean snarl of a drunk-sounding voice, the black-on-black memory that makes me fight so hard even though he just wants me to stop hitting him.

Then it’s nothing, horrible nothing, so much pain as his arm goes around my chest, my ribs, he restrains me because I’m this kicking and shrieking white body to hold. He squeezes me still and squeezes me silent, I go so silent and choking, all this pained choking awfulness that isn’t loud, my chest burns because I can’t breathe.

I need to scream so loud so someone hears, we were just in the hall, I was walking. I can’t be alone in the room, we must still be in the hall where I was walking, but it’s so much awful, awful nothing and one little pitched shriek, some little white shadow shrieking, crazy stupid Phobos flying quick and sharp at my fighter, but I'm such awful nothing and out, it's nothing. 


	29. Chapter 29

It’s waking up gasping, I know I was out because I wake up gasping. I don’t think it’s me shrieking because I never sound that shrill, never sound that crazy-stupid hysteric.

“Phobos!” Oh, no, oh gosh, I sound worse than Deimos. I sound so raspy, so breathless in ways that are ugly. I don’t think I can breathe so it’s no surprise that I can’t get my breath to scream. “Phobos, no!”

Because he’s all over my fighter, this shrieking mean thing so catty and sharp, it’s hair-pulling and slapping because my fighter’s already bruised over from me hitting him, I hit him hard and so fast because I was so scared, oh my gosh this is so fucking awful I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I hit him so hard like Cain, he looks beaten and bruised like when he fought Cain.

Phobos is furious, yelling so shrill, this stream of everything so angry and mean. “You stay the fuck away from him you fucking piece of shit I’ll fucking kill you you stay away from him!”

Phobos is the one who can’t breathe, he’s so panicked and shrill, he’s going to get himself hurt or break a pretty pink nail, I can’t believe I was out like that but now I have to get up, I have to be awake and moving. I think of the maintenance passages of the Sleipnir, it’s so horrible to think but it’s all these split-second scared flashes because Phobos is being so crazy-stupid reckless for me.

I think of the Sleipnir, I think of coming awake gasping. I remember moving toward two dark shadows fighting, one little shadow falling and making such terrible noise, Deimos kicking and fighting so tough and deadly, so lean and sleek and about to die because of me so I did it, I killed my fighter and it was so so awful.

I tackle Phobos off this fighter, this fighter who isn’t mine, this Logos who isn’t him. I don’t even know what to do except that, I barrel right into thin, pretty Phobos so we both go rolling and shrieking.

I started a fight in the Sleipnir same as I started one now, and I can’t let Phobos try to finish it for me now anymore than I could let Deimos finish it then. I just want him safe, I can’t let him get hurt, I tackle Phobos so he’s still, so he’s silent a moment, he pauses for breath and hears that I can’t catch mine. He stays quiet as he gets so very scared.  

Then he can’t stay quiet long, it’s just not in him to be silent. “Oh, Ethos!” he gasps. “Honey, breathe! Your ribs, oh, no --” he’s the one gasping _oh no_ in such a strange scared way, because I’m groaning in ways that are strange and scary.

“Oh, no -- hey! Stop, you -- you -- _you!_ ” He screams it after the man running away, that awful opportunistic jerk who thought he could do whatever he wanted because he’s big and tough.

Well I’m pudgy and awkward, soft divots of skin but tough too, I hit him hard and fast enough that he’s running away now, he grabbed at me so I’d stop hitting him, and if not for my ribs I bet I could have been okay.

Phobos brushes at my bangs and looks so worried, because my chest hurts so much and I can’t move except shudders. He pushes at me, gets to me onto my back, he doesn’t know what to do except stay with me and hold my hand in both his.

“I’ll report him,” he says. “I’ll go straight to Cook. I’ll get him kicked out of Fleet, I’ll have him rung up on charges and lie through my teeth if I have to about it, I don’t care. I’ll say he - he - I’ll just fucking kill him.” Phobos is so furious, so mean, so incredibly scared. It must have scared him so much to see me fighting like that, to see me go out into nothing. I must have looked so scared, been so scary.

“Please don’t,” I say. “You have no idea how hard it would be to hide a body on the station.”

He bursts into a laugh, such a quick startled laugh. Phobos flutters at me like he wants to hug me and just kisses me instead, kisses my lips with such a sweet tinkling laugh.

“Are you hurt?” he asks. He smooths a hand over my uniform, settles out the wrinkles where I’m still dressed, I have on all my clothes and now that I’m feeling calm and less damaged it all hurts less.

I breathe deep and easy, nod my head at Phobos and say, “I’m okay.”

“I really will report him,” Phobos says. “I’ll take it straight to Cook.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t do that,” I say.

He flushes, he turns such a bright furious red. “What’s the point of fucking my way ahead if I can’t pull strings when I need it?” he asks.

It’s so vicious, so mean, I didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t want to make him so scared he turns mean. He turns up his chin, glares at me down his straight little nose. “I’ll report him to Cook,” he says. “I’m not going to let him hurt you.”

“Phobos, I think I hurt him. Look.” I show him my knuckles, how they’re turning red with bruises, where the skin is cut. It hurt me to hurt to him, I knew that it would.

Something clouds over his expression, something I don’t understand even though he can’t lie, he’s such a bad liar. Phobos gently takes my hand in both his, he holds the throbbing hand in his trembling delicate hands and says, “You shouldn’t ever have to be scared.”

I don’t even know what to do. I have no idea to say or do to someone this nice, someone who can sound so catty and mean but then say things so sweet like this, things that hurt so much because he’s too sweet, he’s too good. I’m so scared sometimes because he’s so good and right that I never want to make him feel wrong.

I kiss him. It’s clumsy and awkward, teeth-clicking and painful but he doesn’t mind, he makes such a pretty hum and kisses me so soft and good, kisses me so it’s right, it’s okay. He takes me to medical so they can see if I broke my ribs again. They tell me it’s fine, we tell them there was a fight.

Phobos admits to slapping my fighter, pulling his hair and hitting him, he says it so huffy and mean like we were all cats in heat. He tells them it was a big awful fight and asks in such a whiney bitchy tone they snap at Phobos, they snap because he’s being mean. They say Athos is being reassigned to the Voltaire, they tell Phobos to shut up or get taken to the brig, and Phobos just starts to laugh and look queasy-sick and silly. He gets real quiet, comes stands next to me very silent and scared.

When we’re alone he whispers, “You don’t think he’s like that with Porthos, do you?”

I don’t say anything, because I’m the one queasy-sick and scared. I was too much nothing, too much silly and soft. I can’t remember anything except being scared and hitting him, I hit him so hard and fast because I was scared. I don’t know what happened and can’t say a thing, I let Phobos do all the talking because I’m so fucking scared. I hold tight to Phobos’ hand when we’re alone and can’t stop shaking.

I’m fine, I don’t need to stay in medical, Phobos takes me back his room because Deimos is in mine, we’ve swapped rooms for the night. I keep on all my clothes, I even keep on my jacket, Phobos gets me out of my boots and then we just lie together in the bed.

He holds me so close, he lets me bury into him so tight. All this white cloth between us and I just want him close, I don’t care that it hurts. I need him closer and closer until we’re both crying again, it’s all this wet and sweet, so bittersweet as we kiss because I can’t stop crying even though it feels good, it feels right to move my body against Phobos, to push into him and rub him through all this white cloth. I know it’s weird to keep on my clothes, to make him keep on his clothes, but it feels so good to move against him that I stain both our clothes, all that wet white fabric.

After we just lie so still and close, even though it’s wet, I won’t let him go I just can’t let him go. I’m scared if I let him go I’ll never get him back. I just don’t know what to do other than hold him so close. I make him turn off the tablet, I don’t want that glow. I just want Phobos, Phobos against me in the dark, Phobos in all his clothes, just against me so close.

He’s so silent and still, he’s so scared as I just hold him too tight and close in the dark. The panel still glows, I wish it wouldn’t glow, it’s dark enough not to see but I wish it was worse. I just want to be nothing. I want to be nothing so bad, be so much nothing that I'm not scared -- but with Phobos, just nothing but still with Phobos because I never want to let him go.

I’ll be nothing with Phobos, please let me be nothing but with Phobos, please let me be something with Phobos, his fighter, his Deimos or his friend, the person he loves, this scared boy named Aidan, called Ethos, no longer a Pathos just something, just anything.

Finally Phobos just has to say something, he can’t be silent this long. “Aidan?” he whispers. His voice turns simpering, whining it at me so sweetly. “Honey, this is so lovely but my leg’s asleep.”

He says it so right, like nothing is wrong, like I’m not being weird and this is so perfect. He says it like he loves me, he says it so I’ll laugh and let him go a little. So I’ll wipe at my eyes and stop crying, so he can kiss me to say it’s okay.

I don’t say I’m sorry, he gets into the shower and I get my bandages wet following him. Nothing but wet skin and bandages as I push Phobos into the wet tile. He’s so gasping and pretty, all this sleek wet, I’m awkward with my hand between his legs but my hand’s steady, he keeps his hands on mine, both his hands on mine.

He helps me do it right, shows me the right way to do this so he gets to gasping so sweetly and right, so his eyes get so soft and pretty, so bright blue-green like all that glow when my hands are steady like this. I use that hand on his hip, his thigh, pull his body against mine, push him into the tile so I can move us together, get so close that I’m inside him and we move together.

It feels so good, so right, Phobos puts his hands on my hips, he urges me closer, we’re so close already but he loves me so much, he wants me just as desperately as I want him. I move into him quick, roll into him slow, he flops and melts and gasps so dramatically that it’s just the best, the best.

It’s wet everywhere, we don’t even turn off the spray. We stumble into the glass and race to the bed, he’s laughing because I’m laughing because it’s all this wet dripping and slipping, he’s so sleek. He’s so much pretty perfect pale skin, these strong and tough little limbs that curl over me, bring me between his lifted knees so we’re together again, I’m moving in deep now that we’re on the bed.

Phobos gasps and moans, he’s so fucking gorgeous, I love him, I love him, I shout, “Oh, yes!” and get an excited shriek from Phobos as I lift him with my arm under his back, that steady hand between his thin shoulders. I’m moving into him so much, so eager and earnest, I want so much to tell him with my body just how much I love him.  

My hips push forward, my knees grip the bed, I shout, “Oh fuck! Oh damn!” and hear Phobos laughing, hear him shrieking as it gets wet, as we both come so hard that it’s silly and gasping, like rising up out of cold water, so brilliant and glowing, all those stupid ways to describe something so perfect, so right.

Afterward we lie gasping, lie giggling, lie together and get so comfortably quiet in all that white fabric, the ruined soaked bedding, my bedraggled bandages. Eventually we have to get up, Phobos wants to wrap me back together. Phobos is so quiet, so silent as he kisses me, it’s perfect again because he wraps me back up in white and kisses me to say it’s okay, so I never want to be nothing when things can be this truly perfect.

We use the other bed, Deimos’ bed, we sleep curled up close and wake just the same, wake up so slow and nice. We kiss good morning and have it feel so right.

I follow Phobos into the shower again, keep the water off where I’m bandaged, make him turn off the spray before I take him back to the bed where it’s soft, where I can push in deep and make him laugh and shriek, where it’s so wet and sleek, where it’s so perfect and right, it's the best. Just the best part, so good and perfect.

He’s breathless afterward, grinning with such a fucked-stupid sweet smile, such a pretty bright-eyed look as he gazes at me like he might start drooling. Phobos trails his fingers over my arm and sighs, “Wow. Wow, oh… wow.”

I can’t help but tease him some, I hope he doesn’t think it’s mean of me to ask so teasing and smug, “Do I get a trophy?”

“A grand fucking gold medal,” he purrs. Phobos leans into me and kisses me, puts his hand on my hip like a question and I shift toward him in answer. He flutters a sweet hug into me and kisses my cheek. “Fuck damn,” he sighs. He sounds so happy, so pleased, it makes me feel so happy, so pleased, like I never knew this could feel so perfect and right.

Phobos rolls onto his back beside me and stretches his hands up, his feet, he’s so flexible and thin, so pretty and tough. He asks me suddenly, “Did you ever play sports? Hockey maybe. Or football?”

“What?” I ask it so shocked, I laugh like it’s fun, like it’s funny, he has to be teasing. I’m pudgy and soft, so small and strange, just all these divots and lines with too-round cheeks, coarse curls and snub nose.

“I just could see you doing that,” he says. He’s so fucked-stupid and sweet right now, his voice pretty voice so dreamy and soft. Phobos’ limbs flop down like he’s drunk except I know he’s not, I know it’s just him being so fucked-stupid and sweet because of me, I made him feel so good and right.

“Did you ever play sports?” I ask back with a laugh.

“Oh, sure,” Phobos says. “How do you think I won all those trophies and medals I keep giving you? It wasn’t just for sleeping with the coach.”

He’s being so silly and funny, so I tease back. I say, “Or maybe you were a cheerleader. I could see you doing that. Or ballet, something soft and pretty like that.”

Phobos gets so sharp, so catty mean and sharp, his eyes flash hard like glittering blue-green rhinestones, such bright little jewels like his silly cute name. “Shut up,” he snaps. It surprises us both, because I wasn’t trying to tease, and he’d been so nice, wants to be so nice to me because he loves me.

He’s so pink-flushed and sorry, looks so embarrassed he got mean, I rub at his arm and then turn into him slow. I kiss him so he knows it’s okay, I wasn’t trying to tease, he didn’t need to get so scared he had to get mean. Phobos is so feisty, so silly and sweet. He smiles all soft and silly from just a few deep kisses, my steady hand holding him so close and tight.

“Easy now,” he simpers. He nips at my lip so teasing and sweet but wiggles to get free. “Even a dumb slutty cheerleader like me can only take so many first down tackles like that all in a row."

“You were not a cheerleader,” I say, horrified. I sit up and breathe in deep, put a hand to my side and feel where my ribs are getting stronger.

He laughs and says, “No, but I took ballet. And did some fancy-fast skating.”

“Hockey?” I wrinkle up my nose and look at Phobos’ pretty perfect never-been-broken straight line. “No way. You’re too prissy for that.”

“You’re awful,” he says. “You’re so awful, that’s so mean --” he’s smiling though, smiling like it’s all so fun and he think I’m funny. “Why would you say something like that?”

“Because it’s true. It’s true, isn’t?”

“Of course,” Phobos says with a laugh. But it’s all too sharp, too mean, he doesn’t think this very funny even though he knows better than to be mean back. He tries to be nice even though I’ve been mean about something that --

“Oh, no,” I say. “I like that you’re pretty and prissy!”

“You are so weird,” he hisses, all flat and mean.

It makes me protest with, “I love you.”

He has to say it back, has to sigh and grumble, “I love you too, you impossibly sweet thing.”

So we kiss, we get out of the bed and put on our clothes. We kiss and hold hands, Phobos holds my hand in the lift. We sit at the table together, a little while Praxis and Deimos arrive together.

Deimos is quiet, so very quiet, I keep looking across the cafeteria at him because of the way Deimos sits so quiet and still next to Praxis. My fighter just looks thoughtful and tired, he looks like they were up all night but doesn’t look so happy, isn’t grinning but is just sitting quiet as well.

Later I go with Phobos to the briefing, sit next to him and gossip over the screens. Together we go to look at our ships. He walks with me over to the Tiberius but I don’t see my fighter anywhere, it’s  just Phobos with me as I sit in the navigator’s seat.

I run my hands over the seat, I feel at all that glow, I turn over my shoulder but my fighter’s not there, it’s just Phobos watching me with a sad little smile, because he did this for me even though it was awful, I wish he wasn’t so recklessly stupid, so perfect, so fucking perfect.

I close the hatch, I make him get across my lap. I kiss him, I keep kissing him, I fumble open his belt and make him get mine. It’s different than following him into the shower, I have to let him help me fight off my clothes. I kiss Phobos in ways that are frantic, I’m whimpering but he lets me be fast and weird, lets me feel between his legs until he finally stops me with a gentle kiss, the light touch of his hand.

I suck at his fingers again, let him work himself slick and easy for me. I brace my steady hand on his thighs, his slim strong little thighs, he’s so quick and fancy, so pretty, I bet he looked so beautiful flying around on skates or ballet shoes or whatever other silly and pretty prissy thing he did to get so lean and sleek, so easy for him to contort around inside the navigator’s side of the ship.

He does all the work, helps me make it right, gets to where I can slide into all that tight heat. It’s slow-rolling and then quick. I brace my hand on my panel, shift us around where I can push deep and get him to shrieking, they’re going to come burst open this hatch if I can’t keep him quiet. I shift the angle and thrust slow, rock into Phobos over and over until he's moaning and melted. It’s all this rolling tight heat and perfect so perfect.

I move into Phobos in those ways that are good, I whisper so husky and sweet, “You feel so good, I love you so much,” and it’s deep groaning perfect, his soft breathless perfect. Everything so perfect as he gasps sweet things back to me.

So perfect, everything perfect, even if I’m still a little weird, if I’m still so awkward and awful. Everything perfect until we’re in the room that night, I want to get Phobos in the shower with me because I like that best, I like following him into the shower when he’s sleek and wet.

I think it’ll be perfect except Deimos is there, Deimos is there sitting with the mattresses together. He has the mattresses pushed together on the floor like an invitation, so I have to explain without saying a thing to Phobos why we’re going to bed without showering, why we’re going to bed with Deimos on the mattresses together.


	30. Chapter 30

I have to go be alone in the room with my fighter, because Deimos won’t go be alone in the room him. He stays in our room, his room, I thought maybe Deimos and I could switch now that Praxis is back. I thought I’d stay in the room with Phobos and let Deimos be my room, let him use the space set aside for Ethos while I use the space for Deimos, so he can be Aleks with a nice man named Marcus just like I’m an Aidan with such a sweet pretty Jules, such a stupid cute name for someone so stupid cute.

Except it’s not like that, not like that at all, because Deimos doesn’t want to talk about it and snips at me for trying. He just isn’t going to be alone in the room with my fighter, so I have to go do it for him. I’m worried Phobos might start complaining otherwise, worried he’s going to get upset that Deimos is always in the room with us and we have to sleep together on the mattresses set together.

That first night it’s so awkward, so awful and awkward, because Deimos curls up on his side so alone and sad, he won’t tell me what’s wrong but I feel so bad for him that I forget about Phobos, forget like all the times I got so excited about Praxis. That first night I forget about Phobos and he comes out of the shower to find me hugging Deimos, he finds us curled close together trying to whisper, except Deimos won’t say anything so it’s just me whispering so sweetly because Deimos is scared.

And Phobos stands there staring, he finds it so impossible not to stare, because I’m curled up with Deimos, this sleek deadly fighter I wished so much that was mine that I know I look guilty, so I know my face is saying all kinds of weird things that Phobos can’t understand, that he just finds strange and wrong because I’m acting that way.

I’m strange and wrong as I lay on my back between them, so quiet and wrong because I made things awkward. But then maybe things are okay, Phobos makes it all okay as he curls up next to me and doesn’t snip about Deimos, doesn’t make me feel worse. He just sighs, so pretty and soft, he sighs and curls up where I’ve put him, so close against my side -- the hurt parts of me pressed close, I let him cuddle into my right side so Deimos is on my left. They arrange a quick truce about not touching even though they’re both all over me that first weird and awkward night, they get me caught between them like so many one-sided arguments.

Second night things are better, less awkward, I get wedged between them again although Deimos sleeps on his side, he wants me at his back. Praxis asked me about Deimos when we saw each other at the ship. He just asks if Deimos is with me, looks thoughtful and nods when I say yes, so I have to be honest and tell Deimos he asked, ask Deimos if things are okay, let Deimos say nothing and put his back to me at night. I’ll back him in any fight, he should know that, he trusts to put his back to me even when he’s scared because he knows I’ll back him in any fight, against any fighter.

I have to go be alone in the room with my fighter, that’s awful and awkward, I know he won’t hurt me but I’m scared he’s going to hurt Deimos, I’m scared Deimos hurt him. I have to go be alone in the room with my fighter so I get Phobos alone first, I get him into the Tiberius again with me, I close up the hatch and put him against all that glow.

My hand is so steady, so careful and slow, I do everything right so Phobos gets to gasping, he gets so fucked-stupid and sweet. It’s awkward inside the Tiberius, in the narrow confines of the ship, but I want Phobos alone so desperately that I don’t care. I move into him over and over because it just feels so good. It’s so good and right, I do everything right, it’s my steady hand doing everything right and it’s so perfect, neither of us has to be scared or hurt.

It’s perfect later, perfect when Phobos laughs and kisses me, when he stumbles around just-fucked and silly. He hums and skips and sends me off with a big happy _good luck!_ and a laugh, everything is so fun and funny with Phobos, he is so fun and funny. I love him so much, I want him alone in the room with me, alone in a room with a bed, so I march off to find Praxis, that big dorky fighter of mine.

I catch him by surprise, he’s not expecting me to storm into the room like this. I just blurt it right out, I’m so mean and rude, nothing sweet or soft about the way I get into the room and demand, “You have to talk to Deimos!”

Praxis startles and drops his shirt, he’s only half-dressed because I’m sure he thought he had the whole room to himself, I’m sure Deimos explained something because he didn’t ask me about it, just asked if Deimos was with me. He always knew to come back to the room before on the Sleipnir, always knew I wanted him in the room at night when we had to be alone, it was sweet of him to make sure I still had a fighter in the room, because he doesn’t think I can fight for myself.  

I’m glad he never asked me to explain that, glad he’s never really asked me after why I make noises at night, I’m so grateful to him for being so nice about sharing the room with me. He is so stupid nice, but Deimos is so fragile, gets so scared, Deimos doesn’t understand when people are nice and good to him, and Praxis is so nice and good to him.

And now I’ve scared him, startled him, Praxis is only half-dressed and fumbling to get his shirt picked back up.

“Ethos!” His voice is deep, he’s so big and strong, such a nice gentle fighter so I hope we start to do well in the rankings, I’ll have to teach him to be tough so we can be the best. I never want to get split up from him again, so we need to be a top-ranked team, he needs to learn to get tough, maybe a little mean, so we can be the best and all the best fighters are tough and mean.

“I need you to talk to Deimos,” I say. That’s better, much calmer, less yelling and mean, I’m an Ethos who is sweet again, I can be nice back to this nice fighter of mine.

My fighter puts on his shirt, he slips into this soft grey shirt like he’s going to sleep alone in this room, even though Deimos isn’t here to sleep with him. Praxis looks at me wary, gives me such a thoughtful frown, he doesn’t look angry so much as upset, so sad and hurt.

“You do,” I insist. He hasn’t argued back except that one hurt look, but I’m so good at knowing so much about hurt little looks. “You have to talk to Deimos. Tell him you’re sorry. I know he’s sorry. Did he tell you? Did he tell he’s sorry?”

Praxis still looks wary, he’s frowning so thoughtfully. He leans into the dresser and braces his hands on the edge, faces me down like this is going to be a fight he doesn’t want to have, he doesn’t want to fight me even though he’s a fighter.

“Does he know you’re doing this?” my fighter asks me. “Does Deimos know you’re here?”

“No,” I say. “But I told him I’d explain it. I promised him I would. It’s my fault anyway. It’s all my fault. You shouldn’t be mad at Deimos when it’s my fault.”

“Ethos --”

“No,” I say. “No, just listen. It’s my fault. I never should have asked Deimos to fight for me, but I did, and you can’t be mad at him for it. It’s my fault. I couldn’t fight for myself, I asked him, so now he thinks to has to fight all my fights for me, it’s my fault.”

This isn’t how I practiced it, this isn’t what I whispered to Phobos over and over so he’d help me with it, so he’d give me all the right clever things to say because Phobos says so much that eventually he has to say the right things, he’s so good at saying just the right things in just the right ways.

My fighter just stares at me, his one eye staring, he’s got that black patch so he looks so tough when he’s not, he’s just big and strong, he’s not mean enough to fight me more than just say, “Ethos,” again with such desperate pleading because I’ve started to sob.

He wants me to stop but is too nice to say shut up, so I keep crying and say all these silly things that are wrong, they’re not at all what I practiced saying with Phobos, it’s too honest and raw. “It’s my fault. We did it on purpose, I asked Deimos to come fight for me -- my old fighter -- Logos, I asked him to help me kill Logos. I nearly got him killed I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry I did it. We did it on purpose, I wanted him to fight for me, so now he thinks he always has to fight for me, that’s the only reason he did it, you have to know he loves you and wouldn’t ever cheat, he didn’t want to do it, please don’t think he cheated when he was just trying to be nice. He’s so nice please don’t hate him, don’t hate Deimos.”

“Oh God,” Praxis groans. “Ethos, Ethos stop.”

Oh, no, I’m so awful. I’m so awful I can’t stop, this poor fighter is trapped in this room with me and I won’t stop, he wants me to stop but I just don’t. I keep crying, keep telling him it’s my fault, I tell him about that fight we picked on purpose, that fight he had to take the blame for and spend all that time in the brig. There’s a faint slanting scar on his arm because he lied for me, he lied to save Deimos and protect me, he’s so big and strong, he’s so nice to hug me and maybe I was mean for not thinking he’s tough just because he’s so gentle like this.

It’s a nice hug, he gives hugs that are nice, he asks me nicely to, “Please stop crying,” so I do.

I stop crying, I stop like he asks, I’m the one who has to stop because I’ve got him trapped in this room with me now, this poor bewildered nice fighter of mine.

Praxis strokes at my hair, he pats at my back, he touches me in ways that are nice and don’t hurt, because Praxis is the kind of friend who knows how to be a friend, he knows how to hug in ways that are nice. He pushes me away gently, gets my little body off his now that we’re done hugging, now that I’ve stopped crying.

“Ethos,” he says. Calm and patient, slow like I’ve been stupid, because what he says is, “I’m not mad at Deimos. Deimos is mad at me.”

I sniffled at him and don’t understand. I scrub the tears from my eyes, brush dry my round cheeks, and simply don’t understand what he means.

“Why would Deimos be mad at you?” I ask. I think of the little fighter on his side, that sad scared ball he made so I just had to get my arms around him, just had to hug him so he’d know it was okay.

Praxis sighs and rakes back his hair, he has this thick dark hair that’s so glossy and sleek. “I did something stupid,” he says. “Something incredibly stupid while trying to be nice.”

“So did Deimos. Did he tell you that?”

“Yeah. Of course he did.” My fighter shakes his head, shakes all that glossy thick hair. “He’s too honest for his own good. It makes me too honest for my own good.”

“So just say you’re sorry,” I tell Praxis. “If you did something stupid then just tell Deimos you’re sorry.”

Praxis gives me a look like I’m the one being stupid, like he didn’t already apologize and say all the right things, because Praxis says things so clearly, so rarely says the wrong thing. But I know he had to have said the wrong thing, or didn’t say it in the right way, he needs to talk to Deimos again, because Deimos looks so sad and scared and isn’t at all mad.

So I grab my fighter by the hand. I grab him and say, “Come with me,” he knows to obey. I lead him like walking a dog, like walking a hurt lost puppy, because Praxis might say the right things but Deimos is tricky, he won’t always listen, and I’m going to lock these two stupid fighters of mine in a room together until they both know they didn’t ruin anything.

I take Praxis to the other room, to Phobos’ room where I find him sitting on the floor reading, waiting for me, he’s sitting there waiting with Deimos like I asked, making sure Deimo would be somewhere I could find him for just this reason. I knew they’d both be so stubborn I’d have to get them trapped alone in the room together.

Praxis stops still at the sight of the mattresses together, of Deimos and Phobos sitting there on the floor together even if they’re so stringently on their separate sides. Deimos’ eyes widen once he sees who’ve I brought. The two of them both just get frozen, so shock-still and staring, these two fighters afraid of each other because they don’t want to fight. They’re both so stupid, they have to know it’s worth fighting for, they have to know they should fight to stay together.  

“You’re staying here,” I tell Praxis. “Deimos, so are you. Phobos, come on. We’re leaving. I’m taking you to my room.”

Phobos hops to his feet, he skips and whisks his way to me, he snatches up my hand with a bright cheery grin and says, “I thought you’d never ask!” like it’s all so fun, so funny.

“Ethos --” my fighter says, protesting, but I cut him off with a sharp look. I took at Deimos just the same, telling them both to fix this because they belong together. I split them apart in the first place so I’m going to make them fix this. They both have to know it’s not ruined, they need to fight but it’ll be okay, everything’s going to be perfect.

I leave them there, I leave them alone in the room, I take Phobos to my room and get him alone in the bed. I don’t think I know what to do, I’m scared it’ll be awful and awkward, but Phobos just laughs and smiles, kisses me nice, I can’t be scared when it’s just Phobos, so silly and cute.

He’s fun, so funny, I get him to shrieking and gasping so it’s good, so it feels right. I get him alone in the bed and know what to do, I know how to make it so good and right because he’s shown me and told me all the right things, all these good things we can do alone in the bed.

Later he’s in the shower, I’m at the sink, but I go into the shower after him and make him turn off the spray. I put him into the wet tile, make him go back into the bed so I can do it again, so I can get better at knowing what to do, so we can be the best, top-ranked because we’re so good together.

I want us to be top-ranked, I want to be the best, I’ve got my hand steady in all this glow so I can caress and touch, just all those feel-good right places I need to practice touching in ways that feel good, that feel right. I’ll be a fighter for Phobos, I’ll be anything for him, I want us together always so I need to be top-ranked, I’ll make this the best. He’s so smart and sharp, so quick, fast-flying and fancy, I’ll be reckless so he’ll help me, so he can show me how to do this right, how to make it safe, so I’ll know how to be best.

I get him out of the shower and into the bed, and that’s so good already. He’s so wet and sleek, all these flashy pale limbs as he twists and flexes, so lean and pretty, so perfect pale pretty. I push and push because I don’t ever think I’ll be able to get close enough to Phobos, I love him so much, I want us together so much.

I move into Phobos to be so close together, all that close and together like I want, he clutches at my neck, strokes my shoulders and pulls me closer. I push so he pulls, we move together and both just want to be so close, he loves me so much. It’s so good and perfect with our bodies together, he wants us together so much.

Afterward we shower together, I let him follow me into the shower. I don’t want him to wash me but we can still shower together. It’s different when I’m not pushing him into the wet tile, it’s different when it’s just washing our bodies, I can’t have him wash me but we can still shower together. I don’t have to stand at the sink, don’t have to make him stand at the sink and leave me alone, I can let Phobos into the shower with me even if I can’t have him touch me.

We go to bed without our clothes, it’s just clean white skin between us when I pull him to me under the blankets. I get us both wrapped up so close, just together, our bodies not moving and all this closeness, all this being together, not wearing our clothes but bodies not moving. I can just sleep with him like this, so warm and close together, so vulnerable and sweet. I make him that way, we make each other that way, we’re so stupid in love that it’s perfect. I know it’ll hurt him to hurt me, I know he won’t hurt me for fun, it's not fun for him if I'm hurt and scared, I like all these things that Phobos makes fun.

I dream something nice that doesn’t seem real, wake up slow and kiss him good morning. He kisses me back. He gets into the shower, I stand at the sink. I try to follow him into the shower, and he laughs, he pushes me away playfully and whines, “You’re wearing me out!”

He still lets me put him back into the bed, gasps so pretty and shrieks, his little legs kick as he thrashes and shouts, he yelps and is so incredibly noisy because we’re alone in the room. I’m so fucked-stupid and happy when he clutches me close and catches his breath. When he sighs and says, “Wow, oh, wow,” and then adds, “Sex with you is the absolute fucking best. You are absolutely so the best at fucking,” and laughs such a twinkling fine-china laugh.  

He laughs so prettily so I don’t even know what to do. I don’t even know what to do when he sighs and says stupid things like that so pretty and sweet. He sighs it so sweetly, so fucked-stupid and silly, he hums so prettily and stretches his toes, twists and flexes.  

My heart beats fast, beats hard, he shouldn’t have said that in such a way, shouldn’t have said it so right that it sounds true. I can’t help but roll over him, kiss him so much, try to push us together again so he gets playful and teases, swats at me and shrieks, “Stop, stop!” but we’re both just laughing because it’s so funny, so fun to make Phobos late for the briefing.

It’s so good and right and perfect when I see Deimos and Praxis together at lunch, they’re sitting together across from a scowling Cain in ways that look right, that look so perfect, because Deimos twists his ankle around Praxis’ under the table, he taps little fingers against the big fighter’s leg. Cain scowls so much because they won’t stop looking so right and perfect in front of him, and I’m not surprised when he comes to get Abel up by the hand with such a bossy snarl that Phobos hisses and giggles such a catty little sound right in my ear, we both start giggling later when Abel sits there at dinner with a big hickey on his neck.

Later Deimos gets me alone. It’s not hard since I’m always with his navigator, since I’m never afraid to let such a perfect nice fighter like Deimos pull me alone into a room.

But I think maybe I should be afraid now, I think maybe I should be worried, Deimos is pacing around because he wants to say something, he needs to ask me something. He’s so nervous, so quick, so deadly and tough, he’s such a wonderful good friend, my best friend, so I just let him pace around and fight the words he wants to ask me until he beats them.

He turns on me, sudden and fast. “Like Praxis?” Deimos asks. Sharp, a quick-flying knife, he’s scared and has to be mean, I’m not sure why he’s so scared but he just has to ask it mean and sharp.

I shrug and say the right thing, say it just the right way, say it like I’m not scared so he doesn’t have to be sorry. I say it so he knows it’s okay, that I’m being so honest, that it’s really okay. “He’s nice.”

His grey eyes get soft, one corner of his mouth twitches in that way of his that isn’t a smile. I said the right thing, so he’s not scared to leave me in the room alone with my fighter, so I don’t need to ask what stupid nice thing Praxis did alone in the room with an Ethos who wasn’t me.

I’m sure it was something stupid, something that wasn’t mean or meant, I’m sure it was just something stupid and small except Deimos is so sensitive, so easily hurt, so fragile and sweet, he still doesn’t realize he’s so nice and lovable, that he’s so easy to love even if it’s hard to be in love with him. Hopefully he knows Praxis is tough, so tough, big and strong so he’s willing to fight, such a good strong fighter of mine willing to fight for Deimos, who just needs someone to fight for him so desperately that he’s always trying to fight.  

Deimos puts his arms around me, offers me a hug, he’s sorry for sounding mean and having to ask me such a mean thing. He whispers, “Thanks,” because I’m his friend, I’ll share my fighter with him so long as he shares his navigator with me. I hug him back, hug him tight, so it’s all good and right, so perfect and nice.

I walk him to my room, I’ll swap him for Phobos, he can use my room while I go use his room, but we get into the room to find Phobos and Praxis sitting on the floor waiting with the mattresses pushed together, all our bedding piled into the center, the two of them smiling when we get into the room.

“It’s a welcome back Praxis party!” Phobos declares. He’s holding a bottle, something with a real paper label, we all get very drunk and play cards, we just sit around chatting. It’s so easy to talk when Phobos does most of the work so it isn’t awkward at all, it’s so nice and perfect, he’s even nice to Deimos because he wants to be nice to me, he knows I think Deimos is nice.

Later we get settled to sleep, two dark shadows and two white shadows, Phobos’ tablet screen glowing on our side of the room. We can’t stop kissing, both of us very drunk and silly because of it, I can't stop kissing Phobos so we both get to giggling and have to leave. We trip over each other and know our fighters aren’t asleep but just pretending, it would be so awful and awkward except it’s so funny, so fun to leave for a bit and come back.

Afterward it’s perfect, just so perfect and good, we’re stumbling drunk and just-fucked silly. Our fighters still pretend to be asleep even though they’ve switched places, Deimos is half-buried under my fighter rather than draped up on top. They can’t really be asleep since we’re still giggling and trying to be quiet in such a bad way, but it's nice they pretend and Deimos is so silent as he shakes with laughter. He trembles under the dark shadow of my fighter, such a nice man who tries to shush him since they're pretending to be asleep. Phobos flops over me, he sighs and settles, I hold him close so we’ll stay together, just all of us together, everything nice, all of us together.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Something So Good](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8266012) by [violetnyte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetnyte/pseuds/violetnyte)
  * [The Fighters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8276764) by [violetnyte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetnyte/pseuds/violetnyte)




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